


Mosh Up

by posingasme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Blasphemy, Blood Kink, Cancer, Dark Sam Winchester, Explicit Language, F/M, Fucking Bad Language, Guitars, Heroin, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Leather Kink, M/M, No Rainbows or Unicorns but Punk Sam and Cas and Dean are fucking lovely things, Pierced Castiel, Pierced Sam, Profanity, Punk Castiel, Punk Dean, Punk Rock, Punk Sam, Rainbows and unicorns and fucking lovely things like that, Recreational Drug Use, Roman Catholicism, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Songwriting, Suicide Attempt, Surreal, Tag Your Shit, Tattooed Castiel, Tattooed Dean, Tattooed Sam, Triggers, Weird Plot Shit, You Rotten Snail, just kidding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:05:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 36,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4779995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/posingasme/pseuds/posingasme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soulless Sam, Demon Dean, Cain and Benny the Fang are the stage names for members of Croatoan, the popular punk metal band. While playing at Crowley's club Contagion, a punk goth with dragon wing tattoos catches Sam's eye, and he determines that he will have him. Emmanuel, who goes by Castiel, is far more than the pretty toy Sam was looking for. Dean and Pamela are sitting on a secret between them that threatens to change everyone's lives forever, and it's time to tell Sam.</p><p>This story has become my playground for twisty screwed-up-edness. I write a lot of softer stuff, so it's fun to play in an acid trip now and then. :)</p><p>On the other hand, consider this a warning for...anything that bothers you, especially regarding drug use, profanity, sacrilege and blood. In fact, please don't read this. This plot is surreal and bendy with a side of humor, and its characters are angry and gnarled. You probably won't like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Delivery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cr0wgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cr0wgrrl/gifts).



> Apologies to cr0wgrrl, who, upon closer inspection of the prompt, asked for a FLUFFY mosh pit scene, not...whatever this is.

"What's his name?" Sam shouted over the shrieking din of his own guitar. He never missed a chord, and he could feel Dean screaming into the microphone. It was amazing to be alive! People wanted to know why punk metal. This! This was why punk metal!

The band was killing it tonight. The place vibrated with intensity. It was incredible to Sam that people considered metal and punk to be all about death, when it made him feel so alive.

The roadie was calling to him through the headset. "Which one?" Andy shouted back.

Sam cut through the crowd with a predatory grin. "Blue eyes, no shirt," he yelled. "There!" he nodded toward the man in the writhing pit with the blue faux hawk and dragon wing tattoos.

Andy nodded. "Got him."

"Go," Sam commanded.

The kid was back by Cain's drum solo, shouting into Sam's ear. "Name's Castiel! They see him here all the time!"

"Castiel!" he laughed back. "What's his real name?"

Andy shrugged. "Nobody seems to know! But seems like he might be your type!"

Sam's licked his lips. "Then fetch!" He slammed his hands over his fretboard and let fly a sick chain of chords. He saw his brother toss a grin in his direction and grab hold of the microphone to loose the barrage of lyrics at the crowd. Then they let Cain and Benny take over, and Dean sauntered Sam's way.

"Find a pillow for the night, little brother?"

Sam laughed. "Maybe!"

"Want to mosh him?"

He pictured licking the bruises and blood all over his victim as apology for what he was about to do, and sneered. "Oh yeah," he responded. He approached the microphone and shouted into it, in his signature wail. "There's a man out there," he yelled, pointing, "called Castiel. Dragon wings and gorgeous blue. Bring him to me."

The crowd screamed its lust, and the piercing blue eyes widened in shock just before the man was lifted into the crowd.

Sam could see Andy throwing his hands in the air in exasperation.

Dean's powerful baritone pounded out the words, while both brothers poured their wrath into their guitars, Cain exploded over his drums, and Benny killed the bass. All the while, Sam watched the crowd work as one animal to lift and deliver the beautiful man he planned to seduce.

This crowd was better than most. In some dives and fields they'd played, the guy would have been dropped and trampled by now, which would have been a shame, considering how pretty he was, and Ava kept bitching about their liability insurance. Sam was pretty sure it was the facility that would get sued if a crowd ran a guy to death, but Ava insisted they were responsible too. Ava wasn't much fun.

The man was tossed through the wave, and Sam was impressed with his ability as a surfer. There was no panic in his blue eyes, as far as the guitarist could tell, and he held himself so as not to be picked apart or dropped. This was no rookie. This was a guy who had ridden hands before, and emerged alive and still rocking. Even the hair looked likely to survive unscathed.

As Sam watched, he could feel himself composing new lyrics in his head, dedicated to dragon wings and blue fire, even while he played his heart out on a song he had written months ago. New words and notes were filling him, along with hunger, just watching this meal being delivered.

From the side stage, Pamela gave them the wrap-up sign. Then she shouted into Sam’s headset. "Souvenir, Winchester?"

He ran his tongue along his teeth. "You're invited too, sexy!" he shouted.

"You are not invited!" Dean corrected in a growl.

Pamela pretended to pout.

The band knew the drill. They stretched the tail of the song until Sam's prize had arrived, then slammed to a stop. Dean continued fuming at the crowd, while Sam went to the side of the stage to lift the punk like a tattooed rag doll out of the mosh. He set him on his feet, and locked eyes with him, and was gratified to see the air of dominance and conceit dripping from his chosen sacrifice. Castiel raised an eyebrow, piercing and all, and smirked defiantly.

In an instant, Sam knew he was like no man he had ever met. When he began grinding out the Latin into the microphone, he could see Castiel murmuring the words, as he stared evenly into Sam's face. With every word, the band played a rising, frantic torrent of noise that began to sound like an angry steam whistle by the time it reached its peak.

"Exorcizamus te, Omnis Immundus Spiritus, Omnis Satanica Potestas, Omnis Incursio Infernalis Adversarii, Omnis Congregatio et Secta Diabolica, Ergo Draco Maledicte, Ut Ecclesiam Tuam Secura, Tibi Facias Libertate Servire, Te Rogamus, Audi Nos!"

At the same time, Dean was chanting into the microphone, “Et Secta Diabolica, Omnis Congregatio, Omnis Legio, Omnis Incursio Infernalis Adversarii, Omnis Spiritus, Exorcizamus! Et Secta Diabolica, Omnis Congregatio, Omnis Legio, Omnis Incursio Infernalis Adversarii, Omnis Spiritus, Exorcizamus!”

"Exorcizamus te, Omnis Immundus Spiritus, Omnis Satanica Potestas, Omnis Incursio Infernalis Adversarii, Omnis Congregatio et Secta Diabolica, Ergo Draco Maledicte, Ut Ecclesiam Tuam Secura, Tibi Facias Libertate Servire, Te Rogamus, Audi Nos!"

On the last syllable, the high pitched scream of the band members and their instruments died into a groan, and Sam fell silent.

The guitarist barely heard the crowd roaring with the momentum and compulsion produced by the frenzy. He knew Dean was ending the show, but all he could focus on was the man's blue eyes. Instead of making a scene with his prize as he might have done on another night, he grabbed his hand and yanked him backstage and through the grungy hall. Gordon and Kubrick glared smiles at him. They didn’t like Sam, but they did their job keeping out whatever punks he didn’t bring in on purpose. Creedy was already pushing back two girls with pink hair and no apparent understanding of the band members’ taste in partners. Sam pulled Castiel back to the rooms they were given to work with in this dirty underground club.

“What the hell am I doing here?”

It was a voice far deeper and more sensual than he had expected. “You all right?” he asked quietly. His voice was scarred up, and he knew better than to try to use his stage persona off-stage, not if he wanted to be able to continue his music career much longer. They were already talking about Dean needing surgery for his throat.

Castiel smiled up at him. “Really? You’re asking if I’m all right?”

“Are you?”

The man looked himself over, then shrugged. “Nothing I haven’t had before. Took some guy’s keys to my leg at one point. But I managed to kick him in the head before he was out of range, so I’ll call it even.”

Sam laughed. “Hope you didn’t hurt him.”

He shrugged again. “If that’s the worst that happens to him in the pit, he’s had a mild night.”

Dark hazel eyes dropped to examine his prey. The adrenaline was dying down, and he admonished himself for the thought. This man wasn’t prey. That was his stage persona thinking, not him. “You want to leave?”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No. Not at all. But I kind of brought you in without your consent. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

He began to laugh. “You’re not exactly Soulless Sam, are you?”

To his great shock, he felt a flush of heat hit his sweaty throat, and he lowered his eyes. “No. Not at all. He’s fun to play. But I’m not him. Just Sam. Disappointed?”

“That you’re not a psychopathic monster with no empathy? No. Not so much. I like this version.”

A true smile rose on his face, just as the doors slammed open. Dean had Pamela thrown over his shoulder, and hurried to drop her onto the couch, relishing the way her slim body bounced back at him. He dove atop her with a growl.

“Dude!” Sam shouted, and then cringed when he realized he was overusing his tortured voice.

Cain and Benny stumbled in, arms around one another’s shoulders, laughing hysterically. Sam wondered briefly what they were on tonight, but it didn’t really matter. He was pretty certain he had never seen Cain entirely sober, and Benny was always aching for some fix or another. He figured they could sleep it off on the bus.

Dean looked up from where he had burrowed into his girlfriend’s chest. “Hey! Sammy! Knock it off with all the Latin crap! I can’t remember it all!”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Yes. I’m pretty sure you were ordering a pizza.”

“At least you’re saying something forward. You made me learn the crap backward! What the hell?”

Sam was staring at Castiel, but he responded quietly. “It’s a reverse exorcism. To counter the exorcism I was doing.”

“You can do that?” Cain asked in horror. “You can reverse an exorcism? Dude! What if...what if there were demons out there in the crowd, and then they were starting to die, and then Dean brought them back?”

“Dude! That’s fucking crazy!” Benny laughed, as he spat out his fangs into the cracked sink. “We could have saved the damn world tonight, but Sam had to have lyrical symmetry!”

“You don’t kill demons with an exorcism,” Castiel supplied before Sam could open his mouth with the same words in mind. “You send them back to Hell.”

Dean stared at him. “Dude? Whoever you are? That look on my brother’s face right now is the one that says you’ve got about twenty seconds to get your nerd ass naked before he tears your clothes off.” Pamela giggled. “And he better not do it in here.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Jerk.”

“Bitch.” Dean kissed Pamela softly, and stood to grab his little brother’s arm. “Guys, don’t scar up the new kid too bad. I think Sammy likes this one. Get him a drink or something.” With that, he dragged Sam into the back room and locked the door behind them.

“What?” He was annoyed. He knew they had business to conduct, but couldn’t it wait?

“Dude. Relax. I haven’t gotten to talk to you in two fucking days.” His voice was raspy, and Sam suspected Pamela loved that, but it made Sam worry. “I need to talk to you.”

“The guys are going to take Castiel apart. He’s a good guy, and he’s actually sober. We don’t need some scandal before the festival, not when we’re putting out the new disc-”

“Sam! Stop. They’re not going to be idiots to this kid. And Pamela’s out there. And Andy should be back any minute. They’re high, they aren’t morons. Now would you listen to me? I need to talk to you.”

His eyes narrowed as he focused beyond thoughts of Castiel in the next room. “Cain trying to get you to shoot up again? I’ll kick his ass! That’s it, isn’t it? Your hands are shaking, Dean, like they haven’t since the last time he put that shit in your arm! I swear to God, I’m going to kill-”

“Sam, I’m sick okay?”

He was drawing in his breath, but it stalled as he heard Dean’s words. “Wait, what? What’s that mean?”

Dean rolled his eyes, and sat hard on the cot in the room. He put his elbows on his knees and stared down at the floor.

As far as venues went, this was one of the better ones they had played in their early days, if you didn’t pay attention to the stains on the walls and watched where you stepped. Contagion was one of the digs they continued to play even though the band had gotten big enough to play the better places. It was filthy, sure, but they had gotten their first big break at Contagion, and they liked to come back and sell the place out now and then as a show of gratitude for their success. The manager, Crowley, had a love-hate relationship with them, which he insisted was far more hate than love, but the boys knew better. Besides, playing dives like Contagion kept their scene fresh, reminded them where they were from, and maintained their credibility with fans. Croatoan was a far bigger deal than it used to be, but they never wanted to forget what they were about.

But now he looked at Dean, and saw for the first time how exhausted the man was, and he felt his stomach churn. He shouldn’t have let Jo book them here! He should have kept them in decent arenas, where they knew how to handle big acts, where Dean could have gotten some rest before tonight. What was he thinking? He knew Dean had been tired lately, the stress of the new album, the upcoming festival, so many shows back to back, and then there was freaking Cain always trying to mark up Dean’s arm, and it wasn’t like Benny was the good influence in Dean’s life...but sick?

“What do you mean you’re sick?” he said slowly, sitting across from him in a ratty chair that had probably been thrown too many times.

“I mean, Pamela and I went out a few weeks ago, saw a doctor, then got the call yesterday and got the results.”

“For what?”

Dean wouldn’t meet his eyes. “For the headaches.”

“Dude, you front a punk metal band. Headaches are occupational hazard.”

“Yeah. And they’re also signs of a metastatic malignant brain tumor, spread from kidney cancer.”

“Fuck!” Sam leapt out of his seat, and crashed over it onto the floor. He tried to right himself, as waves of emotion spilled over him. “What the fuck, Dean? What the…”

Dean was silent.

Sam felt a panic forming. The show had just ended. The show just freaking ended! Ten minutes ago, he had been on stage, and now...Ten minutes ago, Dean had been shrieking Latin with him at a crowd of revved punks, and now…

“Sam, I’m sorry.”

His heart finally chose which emotion was the prominent one, and perhaps it was because he had poured wrath into his guitar all night, but fury won out by a landslide. “Sorry? You’re fucking sorry? How long has this been...Dammit, Dean! Pamela knew this was going on? Why didn’t you tell me? I’m your goddamn brother!”

Benny hammered on the door. It was clearly Benny. No one else had a paw like that. “Ya’ll okay in there?”

“Yes!” Dean called, just as Sam was hoarsely screaming, “No!”

There was confused silence in the other room.

Sam pointed at the closed door. “Did he know? Fucking Benny? Did he know?”

“Shut up! No! Nobody else knows. And I don’t want them to know yet. Okay? Pam and I are the only ones. I didn’t even call Dad yet, okay? So settle the fuck down. I wouldn’t even be telling you right now, right out of the show, when you got some pretty painted kid out there, except I never get to talk to you anymore! You’re always taking off to write, and I figured this might be my one chance to talk to you before you holed up in some coffee place somewhere soaking up their wifi. And I need you to know, because-”

“Because I’m your damn brother?” Sam suggested with incredulity.

“Because,” Dean corrected sharply, “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to pull off the festival.”

Sam’s mouth ran dry. “That’s...That’s not...Oh my god. Dean, how bad is this?” It suddenly hit him like a kick to the head exactly how bad this could be.

The green eyes would not meet his. “We’re still working that out. But it ain’t good. Believe it or not, it’s the kidney mess that’s the bigger issue. There weren’t symptoms before, or if there were…”

Realization crashed over him, and the anger was back. “If there were, your ass was too high to notice them.”

Dean shrugged.

“I’m going to fucking kill Cain!”

“Eli didn’t give me cancer, dumbass. And everything I ever took, I took. He never made me take anything, and you know it. He didn’t hold my arm down and shove a needle in it. It was my choice.”

“Then…” Sam felt tears stinging his eyes, and it had nothing to do with the fact that the whole room reeked of cigarette smoke. “Then who can I be angry at?” he croaked out in desperation.

Dean stood and wrapped his arms around him, and held him. “It’s okay, little brother. I promise it’s okay.”

He was shaking with the effort to control himself. It was wrong, so, so wrong for Dean to be the one reassuring him. But that was the way it was, the way it had always been, and he suspected Dean took comfort in the familiar role just as he did. “What did the doctor say, Dean?” he whispered.

“They honestly don’t know, man,” he said as he pushed back to look up into his brother’s face. “But if I want to be around for the festival next year, I gotta treat it now. At least we finished the disc, right?”

Sam stared at him. “How can you even think about the band when we’re talking about your life? A fucking brain tumor, Dean! Cancer! Who cares about a damn album?”

“I do,” he said quietly.

He took a deep breath and let it out as slowly as he could. Then he nodded. “Okay. Okay, I get that.”

Dean looked grateful. He rewarded Sam with his handsome smile. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Okay? I want to ride a show buzz for tonight. I...need that. Pam does too. So let’s go back to the hotel. You screw your punk, and I’ll hang with my girl, and then we’ll meet the guys for drinks later, okay? Is that...okay?”

Sam forced himself to smile back. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Whatever you need, man.”

“Right. Okay. So I’m going to...I haven’t heard Pam’s voice except in my headset for twenty-four hours. Not that I’ll be able to hear right for at least another hour.”

He tried to laugh but it came out more like a whimper.

“Sam,” Dean said softly. “Please.”

He nodded, and gave his brother the best smile he could manage. “No, you’re right. You said we’d talk tomorrow. We should enjoy tonight. Great show, back at our old digs. Crowley’s probably got a fortune in damages to deal with by tomorrow morning.”

Dean gave him a laugh.

“Yeah. Great night. Let’s go back to the hotel for a few hours, then go howl at the moon, huh?”

They walked out of the back room, arm in arm, as though all were well, but Sam felt as hollow as if he truly were Soulless Sam. His eyes scanned the room, and they met Pamela’s dark ones. They stared at one another for several beats, then they both put their masks back on and smiled for Dean’s sake.

“Eli, Benny, we’re hitting the hotel for a few hours, then we’ll meet you at a bar. Text us where you end up. Andy? Will you stay on their asses to make sure they don’t end up in the gutter or a holding cell?”

The Gallagher kid nodded. “I’m on it, Dean,” he promised.

“Drinks are on Sam,” Cain called on their way out to the bus.

Pamela followed after them to arrange for the instruments and bags. The guys always changed their clothes on the bus to leave the illusion intact for their fans, but Sam was aching to get out of his leather. He turned to Castiel, who stood near the mirrors, helping himself to Sam’s binders. “Hey,” Dean called. “That’s proprietary. Besides, my brother’s head ain’t a safe place to hang out, kid. We’re lucky he makes money writing that shit down and turning it into music, or I’d be shelling out a fortune in bills from shrinks.”

“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam shot back. “Like you aren’t dark.”

“I’m adorable,” he argued, and followed after Pamela with a wink behind him. “Be on the bus in five minutes.”

“Adorable,” Castiel snorted. “He looks like Hell coughed him out because they didn’t know what to do with him down there.”

Sam turned to him very slowly. “Castiel. That’s your name?”

“Yeah.”

“If you don’t want the whole Soulless Sam treatment, you better get the fuck out of here right now.”

At last, the blue eyes began shining again. A strange smile came over the man’s face, and he nodded. “Bring it.”

“Fucking punk,” Sam growled, and in a blink, he had knocked Castiel straight into the wall. “You ride hands pretty well. Let’s see what else you can ride.”

But Castiel did not scare as easily as most of Sam’s boys. “That the best you got? You better leave the spikes on.”

Sam’s lips pulled back to reveal a full set of teeth prepared to rip into Castiel. But before he could use them, the man hooked his leg and slammed him onto the floor. Sam yelped hoarsely from flat on his back. For the first time since Dean had said the word sick, Sam’s mind focused on his own body.

Hot breath and dragon wings were everywhere suddenly. The rumbling from Castiel’s throat was so deep, Sam could feel it vibrate right through him. “You picked me out of a crowd,” he purred. His merciless hands went to work, one holding Sam down at the collarbone, and the other disposing efficiently of Sam’s silver-buckled black belt. “Why?”

He stared up at him, and his anger melted into the floor, even as he tried to hold onto it. “Because you were pretty.”

“No,” Castiel remarked nonchalantly as his free hand shoved into Sam’s pants without ceremony.

The musician sucked in his breath through his teeth. “Fuck!”

“No,” he said again. “You chose me because I look like a guy who can shove Soulless Sam into a wall, not because you wanted to do that to me.”

Sam was silent. He licked his lips.

Then the man smiled, and it was just like him shedding his stage persona at the door. The goth punk with the tats and the gauges and facial piercings, the blue eyeliner and fauxhawk, just smiled. “We can play Soulless Sam and Castiel, with plenty of posturing and growling and pretending, or we could just be Sam and Emmanuel, and we could actually enjoy one another without so much work.” He removed his hand from Sam’s leather, and moved the other one from his collarbone. Instead, he reached up to brush soft fingertips along Sam’s throat and lowered his mouth to his waiting lips. Before they touched, he hovered above and spoke again. “Or are you afraid to just be Sam?”

It was a challenge Sam had never been given. And maybe it was the emotional storm pounding in his veins, and the ache for touch and comfort, or maybe he was just that tired. Either way, he nodded. “I think it’d be nice to just be Sam. Whoever that is. And it’d be nice to know Emmanuel. Whoever that is.”

Castiel smiled. “I actually prefer Cas. Emmaunel doesn’t shorten to anything good.” He let his lips fall onto Sam’s in such a sensual, tender, slow drag that Sam found it entirely unfamiliar and wonderful. He couldn’t taste his own makeup the way he normally could when his teeth locked onto a victim. He could hear the soft sighs they were both making instead of growls and grunts. When he licked around the punk’s lip ring, it tasted sharp and delicious, and there was no blood in the mix.

Sam liked the blood.

There was no denying that. His escapades had become legendary among fans, who speculated about it among themselves. He was compared to Ozzie, to his great amusement, and to a psychopath, to his greater shame. He didn’t know where he had gotten his kink for blood. It was nothing dangerous; just the slightest cut would do, but the tang on his mouth made his whole body react. He had never wanted anyone to know, but when the band began gathering followers, he had allowed himself to experiment with some who were up for it. He had often cut his own skin, sometimes his own lip, to get the taste and sensation without even letting his partner know he was doing it. He had needed it one night so badly that he had sunk his teeth into his own inner cheek to taste it during the encounter with a man too stoned to care if Sam was getting anything out of it. It had taken everything he had not to bite the guy.

He bet Castiel tasted incredible.

The blue eyes were intelligent. They were watching him. “Maybe we could continue this where we didn’t have to get a tetanus shot after?” The eyes narrowed very slightly to catch his reaction. “And if it’s a clean scene, I’m not adverse to some cut play.”

Without his permission, Sam’s own eyes went dark with lust, and his lips claimed Castiel’s again. He chewed on the man’s lower lip, wanting to break the delicate skin, then made himself pull off of it with an enormous show of will. “Clean scene?” he murmured. “I can get you that.” He hated that his fans knew his dirtiest secret. But some days, like today, it was quite convenient to have it offered, instead of having to ask. With his heart being ground into meat inside his chest at the thought of Dean’s news, with the helplessness of it all, without anywhere to even direct his anger, he needed release. He had expected that release to come from slamming himself into this punk, and leaving him behind with a story to tell his punk friends about how he had been taken by Soulless Sam of Croatoan after a show at Contagion. But this man was something different. He was beginning to look like something far more satisfying.

Castiel offered Sam his hand, and helped him stand. “Five minutes, your brother said?”

Just the mention of Dean made him flinch. He doubted it was subtle enough for Castiel to have missed it, but the man did not mention it. Sam cleared his throat. “How did you know about exorcisms? And you knew the actual exorcism. We hadn’t played or released that song yet. We try them out at shows like this, to test them out before...but you knew every word of the Latin. And you knew Dean had smeared some of his words.”

Castiel shrugged at him and turned toward the door. “Latin was a requirement for my former line of work.”

Sam followed him, readjusting his wayward belt. “What was that?”

A blue eye winked back at him as he headed for the exit down the hall. “I was a priest.”

The songwriter had never known anyone other than Dean who could shock him. Cain and Benny tried, but it only annoyed him. This man...this man was something very, very special.

Sam grabbed his notebooks and chased after him.

***


	2. Chasing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody needs something to help them get high, or at least keep them from sinking lower.

Cain was pounding on his bunk. If he didn’t stop, Dean was probably going to kill him. Sam was tempted to let him, but the band would have to audition a new drummer, and Benny would be put out. “Eli!” Sam shouted. “Knock it off!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be screwing some goth kid?” Benny called back from his bunk.

Sam’s vocal cords were sulking, and he was unable to keep his grumble. “He’s got a car,” he sighed.

Benny burst into laughter.

Cain poked his head out. “Wait. He’s driving his own self?”

“His own self. So glad you don’t write lyrics, jackass,” Sam snarled. “Yes, he’s driving his own self. He’s meeting us at the hotel. Andy’s already on it. Shut up. I’m asleep.”

“How can you sleep?” Cain wondered. “Don’t you have the crowd in your veins, man? Don’t you just want to fucking kill something?”

Sam rolled his eyes and stared up at the television without seeing it. “That’s not what’s in your veins, Eli,” he snapped.

Dean’s cackle broke the air, and it was followed by Pamela’s giggle.

Benny snickered. “Winchester’s not wasting any time tonight.”

“He doesn’t have time to waste,” Sam breathed. He closed his eyes.

“Sam, you strike out with that punk or what?”

“Soulless Sam don’t strike out, dude. It’s only Sam that fails at getting laid.”

“Fuck you both. I told you, he’s following in his own car. He had no shirt, for one thing. And he didn’t want to leave his car for Crowley to tow.”

Benny snorted. “He would have too. Limey bitch.”

Cain was back to pounding on the bunk.

“Eli!” Dean shouted from the front, where he surely had Pamela draped over the bus couch. “Shut the fuck up!”

“Just giving you and Pammy a rhythm to screw to!” he called happily.

“Benny, sober him up, will you?”

“Asking the wrong guy,” Benny admitted sheepishly.

Sam sighed. “I told you they were both hammered through the entire show. Why do you two morons have to chase before a show?”

The bassist suddenly appeared beside him and shoved into the bunk with him.

“Fucking-Benny! What the hell? Get off me!”

But Benny’s voice was quiet. “What’s wrong with you tonight, brother?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You’re pissier than usual. You got your blood bag delivered. What more do you want?”

Sam felt it like a punch to the chest. He glowered up at Benny. “I want you to get the hell up. There isn’t room in here for me, let alone us both.”

“It’s Dean, right?”

He stared at him. “What’s that mean?”

“The Demon was way off tonight.”

Sam took this as a personal insult, and his glare intensified. “Screw you. He was legendary tonight. Get off me before I knock your real teeth out.”

The Fang shrugged at him, unafraid. “He was off tonight. Not so the crowd would notice. But I was right behind him, Sam. He wasn’t all with us.”

Guilt bubbled up inside him, and he threw it back at Benny as fury. “Your stoned ass wouldn’t be able to tell if he was even on the stage at all. I’m sick of you and Eli shooting up before going in front of a crowd! If Dean sounded off, it was probably your own damn-”

“I didn’t shoot up, Sam. Cain did. But I just got a booze buzz. I swear. And then I threw back a few after the show. I wasn’t...I heard you the last time. No more chasing during a show. I made a mistake back in St. Louis. I know I did. I’m not doing it again. I stopped before, I can stop again. If I need it, I’ll figure something else out. Andy’s got me enough weed to take the edge off. I wasn’t chasing tonight, Sam. And Dean was off.”

Sam nodded slowly. "Maybe he was a bit. I was too far into Soulless to notice." This confession ate at him. He closed his eyes tightly now, as if he could keep the guilt out.

"We all get deep into the act, Sam." Benny snorted. "Except Eli. He really is Cain. No act for him."

"Right. And some days..." He stopped himself in time.

Benny was quiet, but the deep, thick drawl was right by his ear. "You ain't him, Sam. You got a heart, and you got a soul. You couldn't write like you do if you didn't." There was a small shrug. "You're the soul of this band, and everybody knows it. Dean's a fucking badass, but he's said a thousand times, we don't exist without Sam."

"He said that?"

"Couldn't count how often. Guy tore me up after St. Louis, said you were done with me, ready to drop my ass, and that he'd let you. Said if I'm going to keep pissing off Sam, I may as well pack my bags. That he didn't care how much my veins burned, if I couldn't keep it together to do right by Sam's music, he didn't want me around."

Sam stared up at the ceiling in shock. He had never wanted to wonder which of them Dean would choose if he had to. This knowledge mixed into the rest of his roiling emotions, and tears stung at his eyes.

"I am sorry about St. Louis, Sam. I'm trying to make it up to you. This band, you guys, you're everything I got. I'm not going to fuck it all up for nothing."

Sam's smile quaked. "It's all right, Benny. The crowd at St. Louis was so high themselves they thought it was all part of the act. You didn't bite the head off a bat or anything."

Benny gave a small chuckle. "That could have been awesome."

"Black Sabbath has that move under copyright, I think."

"Too bad." Benny lifted his bulk out of Sam's space.

"Hey, Fang."

Benny glanced back at him, and Sam could see the weariness in his eyes, and the constant strain of want that he hid well most days.

"Thank you. For keeping an eye on Dean. And I'm glad you're fighting this thing that's got you. You mean too much to me and Dean to let it control you. If we can help, let us know. We'd do anything for you, and you know that. Brother."

Benny's little smile was a powerful force. He used it so rarely. His laughs with Cain were forced much of the time, and he joked constantly, but Sam wasn't convinced he was ever not in pain. The small, genuine smiles were rare and nice to see. "Thank you, Sam. Just keep writing music for me, and don't...don't give up on me. Okay?"

"Never. Always keep fighting. Always."

Benny gripped Sam's arm for a moment, then moved away with silent grace that shouldn't have been possible for such a large man.

Sam could barely hear Benny and Cain belting out the lyrics to _Dragula_ , or Dean and Pamela laughing while the bus rolled on. He tried to put the rest of it out of his mind for now. Dean said they would talk tomorrow, and that meant there was nothing else he could do tonight.

They always crashed at least forty-five minutes to an hour away from their shows, when they got a hotel at all. Most nights were spent on the bus, switching out the drivers. There were two vans traveling with them, and two more heading for their next destination. They weren't pulling Dean's car this time, which made for a faster trip. Sam had convinced him to leave it safe at the garage back home. It was like separating a man from his child.

He glanced at his phone. Andy had not texted him otherwise, so he assumed Castiel was still on board. He closed his eyes again, made himself comfortable in the cramped space, and directed his brain to think only of the taste of that beautiful punk.

Sam was more metal than punk, but the lines had blurred in the music world over the last decade or so. Punk metal was how they identified themselves, because it was vague enough to mean whatever they wanted it to mean. Metalcore one day, political punk the next, goth-inspired rage, and fantasy ballads, all held together inside Sam's brain with duct tape and safety pins. Cain's long curls and tattoos, Benny's fangs and slashed shirt under suspenders and half a shaved head, Dean's military cut, camo, denim and boots, and Sam's piercings, studded black leather and spiked collar...It all added up to Croatoan, infuriating purists and delighting fans.

Castiel was painted beautifully, and he was hardly a kid, no matter what they kept calling him. He had worn silver and blue piercings all over, a plain black leather buckled collar, and industrial punk black pants that looked as though they were designed by a mad man. Sam was not even sure how he was going to get him out of them.

He began to smile at the thought. A priest. Sam had scored a lot of types in his time, but he was certain none had ever worn that kind of collar before. How did a priest end up in a scene like this? How did a guy who looked like he could kick the ass of every man in the pit, who had managed to surf like a pro, and who had returned a careless gesture with a kick to the head, end up a priest?

Sam had to remind himself this was just one night. They were off to Tucson in the morning. Just one night with a fallen priest, a pretty punk who spoke Latin and knew exorcisms, and who wasn't afraid of a little blood.


	3. Blasphemy

The roadie lead him into the hotel, and up to the suites. He was babbling as he did so.

"You don't know how rare that is, you know? Sam doesn't bring anybody to the hotel. A screw on the bus here and there, but usually not even that. You're actually...I mean, Benny and Cain, but not Sam."

Castiel nodded absently. He wasn't really listening. Andy hadn't said anything particularly useful yet.

"You're older than some of them. All of them. I don't think Sam's picked a kid over twenty-two ever."

The man scowled at him. "Thanks."

"Just saying. What are you, like forty?"

Castiel stopped walking to stare at him. "I'm twenty-nine!"

Andy shrugged. "So almost forty."

He shook his head and kept walking. This kid was beginning to annoy him.

"So anyway, if you need anything, call for Max. I'm heading out with Cain and Fang. If the Demon stops by, you better make yourself scarce. Dean always gets Sam's attention first, and they'll both be pissy if they have to tell you that. And one more important thing." He took out a key card and went to open the door to a suite.

"Yeah?"

"You got any needles on you, you better give them to me now. Sam won't put up with it. Already done it, fine, but don't try and shoot up past this door."

Castiel gave a soft smile. "Unusual for a metalhead to care."

"Sam cares. Sam cares a lot." Andy knocked twice, then opened the door with his key card and held it for Castiel to enter. "Have fun."

He passed through the doorway, rolling his shoulders to stand straighter. Castiel knew he tended to slump, and that was no way to present himself to a new lover.

One night stand, he reminded himself, and wasn't that strange? He had never needed to remind himself of the fact that his toy for the night was just for the night. And of all people he shouldn't need that reminder for? This was Soulless Sam of Croatoan, for hell's sake.

He had wondered which Sam would be waiting for him when he arrived. Now he could see for himself. And this might be his favorite version yet.

Sam was dressed in simple, loose-fitting navy blue jogging pants, with bare feet and bare chest, clean of makeup and clearly fresh from a shower. He was seated at the bench of an expensive silver synthesizer, making notes to himself on the small work station attached. This was hardly the Sam that Castiel had expected. He liked it.

Sam glanced up at him, then looked back at his notebook. "You wanted a clean scene. I'm guessing that means you want to wash off the pit muck?"

Castiel watched him. "It would be nice."

"Through there," Sam gestured.

He nodded and unhooked his wallet from its chain to set on a side table. "Nice suite."

"Hm," Sam hummed distractedly. "Cain thinks it's a waste of money when we could be sleeping in a bar under a waitress someplace."

He laughed. It was quieter than he had expected it to be in this room. "Do you sleep under waitresses often?" he asked as he began to strip off his clothing.

At last, Sam smiled too, though not at Castiel. "No. But I've been known to tip a bartender or two." He shrugged. "That's more their style than mine. I like picking up guys at shows." His large hands covered the keyboard aimlessly.

Castiel heard the beginning of _Be Thou My Vision_ play out as he stepped into the shower. And wouldn't Forgaill be shocked to see the beautiful monster playing his hymn fifteen centuries later? Castiel smiled in the warm water, and began to sing in a low voice.

 _Be Thou my breastplate,_  
_My sword for the fight._  
_Be Thou my armor_  
 _And be Thou my might._  
Thou my soul shelter,  
And Thy my high tower,  
Raise Thou me Heavenwards,  
O power of my power.

Water flowed down Castiel's back. His own hair was clean of product by now, his eyes and face were scrubbed of makeup. His tattoos spiraled around his arms; calligraphic script in Latin, symbols of the saints and ancient protective wards marked him down the left side from throat to hip; the dragon wings were majestic on his back. And there was the rosary on his hand, reminding him, always.

At last, he turned off the water, and stepped lightly out onto the white rug. He took a towel, and dried himself while staring into the foggy mirror. He considered for a moment, then tied the towel around his hips. Castiel was pleased with the shape of his own form, but there was no reason to be immodest any more than there was a reason to be shy. He touched at his own throat for a moment, thinking of how long it had been since he had worn a white collar instead of the black leather one he had just removed.

Sam was playing _Aurora Lucis Rutilat_ when Castiel emerged from the bathroom. He smiled. “You don’t have to play hymns on my account.”

"You want the real me?" the musician murmured as he gently pressed the keys with his classically trained hands. "I don't know what that is anymore. I sure as hell don't know what it is tonight. The real me dove into a pit years ago, and this is what's left, under the makeup and the music. Scarred up and mostly made of angry and tired. But you wanted Sam. If you were hoping for something else, go."

Castiel watched him with interest as the music played on. “When He, whom stone and seal and guard had safely to the tomb consign’d, triumphant rose, and buried Death, deep in the grave He left behind. Calm all your grief, and still your tears. Hark, the descending angel cries, for Christ is risen from the dead, and Death is slain, no more to rise.”

The ghost of a smile came over Sam then. “Sure, but can you do it in the original Latin?” he teased.

“Not without the words in front of me.”

Sam smirked and cut his eyes at him. “Ille, quem clausem lápide miles custódit ácriter, triúmphans pompa nóbili, victor surgit de fúnere.”

“Now you’re just showing off.”

Sam laughed then, and his hair fell in front of his face.

Castiel tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “You take out your piercings at night?”

“Only if I’m at a hotel. Most nights, we’re on the bus. I take full advantage of being in a stationary bed and not surrounded by three other guys and random road crew. Being the gay guy on the team has its privileges. I never have to share a room.”

“Sam? Would you like me to go? You’re tired.”

“I’m always tired, Cas. The real me is always tired.”

“That didn’t exactly answer my question.”

Sam took a deep breath, and for the first time, he actually turned toward Castiel. He continued to play with just his left hand, and the melody altered dramatically. Ravel for Wittgenstein. Castiel was impressed. “Talk to me. About what you really want. Today has been a fucking nightmare, other than the fact that I found the only holy man in a mosh pit, and he’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve seen in a long, long time, not to mention fearless.”

The man moved forward and dropped gracefully to his knees. He lifted himself to taste Sam's lips. He grinned into Sam's mouth. “You want me to stay, then?”

“I want you to stay.” It was a small, desperate whisper, strained with a hollowness Castiel recognized all too well. “It’s all a fucking nightmare, and I just need to...” He gave a shaky grin. “You are gorgeous, aren’t you?”

“I like this Sam,” he murmured into the musician’s neck.

There came a rough, hoarse laugh, devoid of humor. “This Sam is far more fucked up than the one on stage. You’ll be the one guy who knows. Nobody will believe you.”

“Nobody would believe me that you play _Aurora Lucis Rutilat_ beautifully. That you’re a genius with Latin. That you are lonely and angry and tired, and that you need the taste of blood to feel alive? Nobody would believe me. And that’s all right. I’ve got no one to tell.”

“I want you, Castiel.”

"You have something to use?" Castiel breathed.

Sam left the keyboard for the bag next to the bed, and returned to reveal a condom and lubricant, and a small switchblade. He held them out so that the decisions were left to his guest.

Castiel's heart began to pound. He stood and took the items. Sam watched his hands. "I want you on your knees, Sam," he intoned.

The hazel eyes flashed in defiance. "That's not how-"

"That's how you'll do it tonight."

Sam licked his lips and took a breath. Some of the danger was back in his eyes, the weariness replaced with wariness. "You're a fucking..."

Castiel raised an eyebrow and lifted his chin to stare him down from nearly five inches below him.

The musician watched him for a moment.

"And put on some music," Castiel ordered as he turned away, a smile playing on his face.

Sam scowled at him, but did as he was bid to do.

It was hard not to enjoy how off-balance the metalhead was. This wasn't his usual encounter, and that was obvious. Castiel wondered in amusement if Sam was regretting his choice of partners for the night. It didn't matter. He wouldn't regret it later.

Metallica was a sure bet among punk metal fans, so Castiel wouldn't have been surprised by that, but he was pleased to hear Opeth's _Damnation_.

He smirked, and watched Sam glance back at him moodily before shrugging his hands and lowering himself to his knees to sit on his heels.

"No. Kneel tall. Don't be lazy."

Sam's teeth were baring in annoyance. "I don't know what you think this is going to be..." he growled, but lifted himself as he had been told to do.

"I think this is going to be exactly what you need it to be."

He watched with pleasure as Sam swallowed hard. "I'm not some repressed sub, punk, if that's what you think."

"I don't think that at all. I think you have a great deal of anger and no amount of screaming metal and slamming punk toys against walls is going to relieve that."

"Of course I'm angry! I write for a fucking metal band! Who the hell are you, and what the fuck are we even doing right now?"

"I'm a broken priest, and I'm going to give you my blessing."

It was a beautiful thing, seeing Sam's lips part like that, to find the musician speechless. The hunger in his eyes was deep and intense, as Sam stared at Castiel's hands. He stood over Sam, muttering in nearly-forgotten Latin, and he drew the knife slowly across the flesh along his left inner thigh. It was not too deep a cut, but it ran red immediately, and spilled onto the towels Castiel had strategically dropped.

Sam's tongue drew his lip between his teeth.

"Taste, and drink, and be saved."

With just an intake of breath, Sam's mouth was on him, gathering the spill with his tongue, and then attaching his lips to the cut itself. Castiel could feel the pull of it, could hear Sam's hunger in the way he moaned over the mess. He put his hands into Sam's hair, tangling his long fingers through it, and whispered prayers over the man.

With the blood on his lips, Sam moved his mouth to let Castiel fall hard and heavy onto his tongue. He closed his mouth around him, and pulled as though it were the source of the blood. Castiel sighed. "That's it. That's what you need. There's no Heaven, Sam. No Hell. No right or wrong. There's just you and me, doing whatever feels good. Because the world is ending, Sam, and there's nothing we can do but watch it burn." His eyes rolled back and closed.

Sam's hands came up to grab onto Castiel's hips, shoved him deep into his throat.

"Good," Castiel purred. "Good. Be as angry as you need to be, Sam. I'm going to rip it out of you."

The enormous man moaned around his mouthful, and it made Castiel shiver. They pressed back against the bed, until Sam was no longer kneeling, but climbing, and Castiel was no longer standing, but falling.

And wasn't Castiel always falling?

He yanked Sam's hair, pulled him off, and breathed rapidly to bring his mind back from the fog of pleasure. He moved Sam's hungry lips to the cut, and felt the strange, incredible sensation of the man sucking hard at his blood. When he pulled on the long hair again, Sam growled like a wolf being separated from a meal, and he looked up at Castiel with pure rage and smears of blood on his face.

It was all Castiel could do to speak. "Patience," he breathed.

Sam bared his teeth at him, and Castiel's heart and groin throbbed painfully. "Don't play with me," a low, dangerous voice advised.

"You're going to use this blood to coat yourself, and I'm going to use it to prepare for you. And you're going to wait in bloody, sticky patience while I push you into me from above you. And we're going to use one another up until we're both full of what we need. Because it's bad, and it's wrong, and we shouldn't. Because I'm a broken priest, and you're a monster and a freak, and because God couldn't care any less."

Something in Sam snapped, and he pounced on the bed, rolled Castiel onto him. He had lost his pants while turning on Opeth, and Castiel got a good look at what was coming before it was slathered with blood. He drew in his breath through his teeth, and let his mind burst with the want. Then he blinked hard, through the desire, and went back to work. His hands prepared the condom and lubricant without disrupting the illusion that the blood itself was what he would use to consume Sam's length. He had seen what that thought had done to Sam.

He continued speaking in his deep voice, chanting dangerous promises and blasphemous lies, until he had Sam exactly where he wanted him. He rolled on the satiny condom, with blood on his hands so that it was everywhere. Then, just as he was holding Sam steady with one hand to pierce himself, he fed his coppery fingertips to the man's tongue, and then pressed down to devour Sam's body with his own in one smooth motion that burned.

Sam howled, his sharp eyes softening and rolling back, his clenched jaw falling open even as his tongue stabbed at the bloody webbing between Castiel's long fingers.

Castiel hummed out a shameless, contented moan, and grinned at Sam's wrecked expression savagely. "Sam Winchester. The boy with the taste for blood. You can be as angry and fucked up as you need to be," he reminded the musician as he began to move in time to Sam's gasps, "because you've never been as much of a monster as me. I'm a priest who rides freaks like you just to piss off a God who isn't paying attention. So fuck me, freak, but remember which of us is in charge here. It isn't you. And it isn't God. I'm not a priest anymore. I'm your new God, a better one, and you will bow down and profess your love unto me, your Lord. And maybe I'll be merciful."

Somewhere in the low light of the room, there was a flash of blue, but Sam's eyes had closed entirely.


	4. Caged

Sam was playing again. It was a soft, sensual rendition of Leonard Cohen's _Hallelujah_. Castiel didn't know how long he had been in his sex coma, but he smiled to himself as he heard the chorus play out.

"Maybe there's a God above, but all I've ever learned from love was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you..."

The musician's fingers continued their work, but he began to smile too. "You're not bad," he muttered without glancing at the man in the bed.

"And you're incredible."

Sam snorted. "A little late to turn fanboy now, isn't it?"

Castiel untangled himself from the bedsheets and crawled to the edge of the bed to watch Sam's hands. He lay naked on his stomach, lazily admiring the movement. "You're obviously a classical pianist."

"No. I'm a metalhead. I used to be a classical pianist."

Castiel smiled at him. "Why are you slumming with us freaks in the pit?"

He shrugged. "Maybe that's where I belong. Why are you?"

It was a fair question. Castiel let his eyes wander over the musician's body. The pants were back on. Obviously another shower had happened at some point, for both of them, since Castiel was also clean. He vaguely remembered having brushed his teeth...

"What time is it?"

"Four. You didn't answer me."

"No, I didn't."

Sam's jaw clenched, and the music took a dip into something more sinister that Castiel did not recognize. "You going to talk at all?"

"Not good at it," he said, rolling onto his back.

"Yeah? Because there was a steady stream of crazy, fucked up crap coming out of your mouth a few hours ago."

"That's mild compared to some of your lyrics."

"I don't fuck to my own music."

Castiel stretched his limbs, feeling the delicious soreness in his muscles. "You should. I have. Plenty of times. I recommend _Acid_. It's got a great beat. Or maybe _Tethered_. I like that one too. Probably the sickest night I ever had was with a woman named Meg, and we got off to _Some Kind of Freak_ and _Daeva_ playing on repeat."

Sam was frowning. He glowered at his own hands. "You are one messed up kid, you know that?"

"No more than you." He sat up with a heavy sigh. "Okay. You want story time? I'll match you question for question."

This got Sam's attention, and the music stopped as he turned around to face him. "What? You ask me and I ask you? Like freaking kids?"

"Like freaking kids who just shared a multitude of bodily fluids. Yes."

Sam allowed a small smile to form. "I don't promise to answer anything. I got a career to think of."

"As do I."

He rose and stepped lightly to the bed, and sat. "Okay. Let's start there. You said you used to be a priest."

Castiel shrugged. "Everyone used to be something."

Sam smirked. "Not like that."

"What's your question?"

The musician looked as though he didn't know what to ask. "What...When did you...You mean like a Catholic priest, right? Not some freaky cult?"

Castiel burst into laughter. It felt good to release tension in that way. It had been a long time since he had laughed with anyone.

And Sam was beginning to blush, which was the hottest thing he had ever seen a badass, pierced metalhead do.

He sighed finally. "Yes, Sam. A Catholic priest. A poor excuse for one. And you want to know how I could go from that to what I am now."

Sam shrugged.

It was not a story he ever told. He usually let his partners get off to the idea of spoiling a priest, but did not speak on it further. Meg had heard parts of it. She had wanted him to take confession while he fucked her. Meg had been a special kind of freak.

But this was Soulless Sam of Croatoan. And Castiel was just enough of a fanboy to be willing to tell him anything he wanted to know.

"It was all I ever wanted, growing up. I can remember sitting in Mass, mouthing the words to every passage, because I knew one day I was going to wear black. I studied everything I could get my hands on, and every prayer was begging God to call me to serve." He closed his eyes. The pain was still so sharp. "It was all I ever wanted."

It shocked him a moment later to feel a large hand in his. Soulless Sam was holding his hand to offer support. It was quite possibly the most beautiful thing he had ever experienced. He let himself feel it in silence for a moment before speaking again.

"I went through seminary, served under a man I worshipped as I did the saints. I did a short tour with a military unit, as their chaplain. I had to learn to fight to prepare for that, and it disturbed me how good at it I was, how naturally it came, and especially how much I enjoyed it. But it was a means to an end. I was preparing for war so that I could safely administer peace to my flock. Still seemed a righteous path." He took a breath and opened his eyes. "I'll...continue in a moment. It's your turn."

Sam licked at his lip in a way that made Castiel want to bite it. "Okay," he relented warily.

"You trained for concert piano."

A smirk appeared. "Maybe. I've never hidden that from fans. I just don't advertise it. I went to Stanford for music."

"Also not on your official website," Castiel teased.

"Why would it be? I got kicked out two months before graduation."

Castiel began to grin. "There. That's the story I want."

Sam groaned, but Castiel could hear the shame in it. "It ain't much of a story, dude. I beat the ass of some pre-law prick, and apparently that's frowned upon."

"I want to hear. What happened?"

Hazel eyes rolled. "Sure. What the hell? Guy named Ty Brady, used to be a friend of mine. He started shooting up sometime in sophomore year, and he spent most of what should have been his junior year in and out of rehab. Got nasty eventually. It was all he could do to stay in school, even with me staying up nights trying to help him. And it ate away at me. Everything he did, he turned into a way to hurt me. Like he blamed me for the withdrawal. It hurt," Sam murmured. "I know it did. But it wasn't because of me, you know? But he took it out on me until I finally couldn't do it anymore. I told him to get himself a new punching bag. Can't believe I fucking said that."

Castiel sighed. "He went and found a new punching bag," he guessed.

"Yeah. Girl named Jess. Friend of ours. And he got high and beat the crap out of her one night. She ran to my apartment, and he followed her. I kicked his ass. It was pretty brutal. But the whole time, it was like he couldn't even feel the pain. Just kept spitting stuff about how soulless I am, how empty and hollow and...And I couldn't stop hitting him. It started as protecting Jess, but it became something so far beyond what was necessary for that...I just couldn't stop hitting him. Jess had to call the police."

Castiel nodded. "Did you love him?"

Sam's eyes rolled back as if Castiel had been the one throwing punches. Tears sprang to his hazel eyes, and he could not speak at first. He glared through the tears. "It wasn't Brady anymore," he hissed finally. "Even if I were capable of that, it wasn't him. And whatever I was to him before...I was nothing after he started chasing. He spent whole nights sweating into his bedsheets, shaking, and telling me how much I disgusted him. And I couldn't leave him. I tried so hard, but he didn't want to get better. And he hated me for the pain he was in. And I hated me for it too."

Castiel felt himself move toward Sam without thinking. The musician leaned back into him, until he was holding Sam on the bed.

"After one really brutal night, after listening to him fill my head for hours with how disgusting and empty and worthless I am, I finally got him to sleep by sucking him off. Then I called my brother to tell him goodbye. He and the guys were too high to get what I meant, and that was fine with me. So when I dove off the bridge and hit the water, it was the freest I ever felt in my life. Like I was finally accomplishing something. Like it was the only thing I could still do to help anyone, and I was doing it to save the world. From me. I actually remember thinking as I fell that I was saving everyone I loved from me. Saving Brady. Saving Dean. But I didn't even do that right. A month later, I was back at school, and Brady was still high and both of us still hated me. But Dean. That was when Dean got himself sober. Because he didn't hear me say goodbye. I left Brady behind, and that's when he moved on to Jess. And I hated me for that too. So I got myself kicked out of Stanford, and I got the band back together, just like we had always talked about, and here we are. Fucked up as ever, but with more money and deadlines."

Castiel held him for several minutes after that. He could feel the man trembling, and it broke his heart. He wished he could heal the pain. He lifted one hand to Sam's forehead with a sigh.

Sam smiled suddenly. "That feels good."

His lover flinched.

"What is it?"

He did not know how to answer. Something about Sam leaning into his hand struck him deep inside. He closed his blue eyes tight. "Nothing."

"That was two questions."

"What was?"

Sam's voice was firm. "You wanted to know how I got kicked out of school. And you wanted to know if I loved Brady."

"Did you?"

He sighed heavily. "I worshipped Brady. It wasn't the same thing as love, but it was as close as I could get. And he didn't love me. He needed something to mess up, and I was just grateful he chose me. If holding something under the water was what got him off, I was too happy to drown for him. I nearly did...drown for him."

It occurred to Castiel that a great deal of Croatoan's imagery, especially in their first album, _Pit_ , which included their first single, _Damned if You Do-Bored if You Don't_ , had to do with water. He could hear Dean's rough voice in his head now, lamenting the waves washing over his face, smoothing out the scars and putting him in his place. _Cage Diving_ was one of the most debated songs Croatoan had ever put out. The lyrics were intriguing, and clearly had an element of suicide in them, but now he knew the story behind it.

He took a deep breath. "Bare arms shot up with naivety, saving the world always falls upon me. Dive in the cage, take the angels with you, save the world from your rage, pull the Devil in too."

Sam shrugged from within his arms. "Fan favorite. Can't play a show without it."

"You get up and sing about your attempt to kill yourself every time you're on stage?"

"Why not? Not singing about it doesn't mean it didn't happen." Sam sighed. "Your turn, Father."

Castiel had some difficulty refocusing. "I..." For the first time in his new life, he considered telling the truth. Sam would be gone in a few hours, and he would never see him again. Where was the harm in telling what really happened? "I don't..."

"Why you're not a priest anymore," Sam reminded him with a humorless smirk.

"Yes, I...If I tell you something and it sounds insane, please just..." He rolled away from their embrace and stared at the wall. "Whatever. Who cares what you think? There was a miracle."

"What does that mean?"

"A miracle. Like the ones in the Bible. The ones I believed in with all my heart. And then I saw one. I...I performed one."

Instead of laughing, Sam simply sat up and moved closer. "What happened?"

"Schizophrenia, obviously!" he snapped. "Except there's no such thing as temporary schizophrenia. And I can't get it back, no matter what I do."

"What happened?" he asked again.

Castiel laughed a bit madly, and shrugged as tears stung his eyes. "I healed a blind man."

Sam was frowning. He could hear it in his voice. "Wait, what?"

"Yeah," Castiel breathed. "Like I said. Crazy. But it happened. And it came from me. I felt it come from me. I just meant to pray over him. And when I touched his head, I saw his eyes clear, saw pain ease. And I'll never forget the way he spoke, that he could see, oh my god, I can see. And then the second thing out of his mouth? Your face. What's wrong with you?"

His laugh rang out again, shrill relative to his usual voice.

"A blind man gets his sight, and the first thing he sees is my face, and he wants to know what's wrong with me. I must have spent a hundred hours staring in the mirror since then, trying to see what he saw. And I still have no clue what's wrong with me. All I know is there was a miracle, that I performed it, and I can't get it back. God worked through my hands, then He left me, and I don't know...I don't know what I did to make Him leave me. So I do whatever I need to in order to feel it again, that rush of power from my own hands, and I keep thinking one day I'll finally get His attention. I don't care if it's just to smite me. I tried piety, and it brought nothing. Only emptiness. So now I have made a study of hedonism and wrath, and so far that's given me nothing. But it's far more fun. If I've disappointed God somehow, and He's washed His hands of a man He once trusted with a miracle, I may as well consider myself among the damned, and I'm free to sin as I please."

Sam was silent for just a few beats. Then he began to smile. "That makes perfect sense to me."

Castiel stared at him. "It makes no sense at all. Schizophrenia. I told you."

The musician nodded. "Maybe. But who cares? A guy from another band once told me the world was coming to an end, and we may as well blow coke and jump on the beds. I told him I'd rather blow cock and jump in a mosh pit. He decided that was a better way to go, and we spent the weekend doing that before I had to take off. World didn't end, but it was fun."

Blue eyes flashed with pleasure, and he didn't bother hiding his smirk. "Maybe you're the wise man I've sought."

Sam grinned, and climbed over the young priest to sin again.


	5. Blinded

Dean could hear Cain in the background. He closed his eyes, forehead in his palm. Pamela's hand was rubbing his neck in devotion.

"Andy, I'm not expecting you to be able to control him. Nobody can control Eli. Just...make sure nobody gets hurt. Benny and Gadreel can take care of the rest. And if there are damages, just text Ava. Give the owner Ava's card."

"Tommy ain't here!"

Dean's eyes cut open. "What? What do you mean he ain't there?"

"Tommy Gadreel," Andy shouted.

"I know who you're talking about, dumbass. Where the hell is he?"

"I don't know! Jesus! Look, I gotta go. Cain's picking a fight with a freaking biker. Just so's we're clear, Max and Ansem are on Cain-sitting duty in Tucson! I gotta sleep sometime!"

"Text Gadreel," he ordered as he hung up. "Tell him to get his ass to a bar called Serpent off the interstate, before I fire him."

Pamela's long fingers were flying over the touch screen. "There. Sent."

"And did Sam say anything yet? How many hours does it take to punch a hole through a damn punk anyway?"

She smirked. "Your brother's never been the kind to cuddle after. Remember when he tossed out that guy on the bus to Detroit? Asked him if he had a cellphone, then told Tommy to slow down long enough to leave him on the side of the road."

Dean shrugged. "Guy got what he came for, and Sam was done with him. Most kids come to see Soulless Sam, not my brother. Guy was lucky he told Tommy to slow down. When he's in character, he's fucking scary."

"You're not?"

He snorted. "I'm the least scary of all of us. Eli is a fucking psychopath. Andy's trying to rip him off some biker right now. Benny...you ever seen Fang in a fight?"

She shook her head at him, and guided them both to lay down on the suite bed.

"Don't happen often, but when it does...I can remember once we were in this shitty dirt floor bar in the middle of nowhere. Mason jar kind of place, you know? Cain was passed out under the pool tables. Sammy was probably in school back then. Or if he was with us, he must've been off writing or screwing. Just me and Benny, and a group of four guys pissed off that I was hustling. We were staring each other down, and I was wondering, do we fight or do we run and try to drag Eli's heavy ass out with us?"

Pamela raised herself to her elbow and looked into Dean's face. "What happened?"

"All of the sudden, I hear Fang just start whistling. Like we were freaking walking down the street instead of about to take on four guys our size or better. And I was just like damn. If he's cool about this, let's do it. Fucking gorgeous way to die, you know? Pure, simple. Kill or be killed. So when the first guy threw his fist at Benny, I shoved his weight onto the table and beat his head into it. Damn son of a bitch whistled through the whole freaking fight. And Eli slept through the whole thing."

Pamela laughed. She lowered her head to his chest.

He ran his hand through her long black hair. He closed his eyes again. It hurt to keep them open. "Gorgeous way to die. How I want to go. Finally meet my match and go down swinging in a good fight."

She was silent and still.

"Maybe Sammy had the right idea, you know? Do it on your own terms. Go out with your eyes open. Let the waves wash over my face, smooth out the scars, and put me in my place. Except I wouldn't want to do it in a way that would hurt him. Never hurt so bad as when I found out what he tried to do."

"I know, baby."

Dean licked his lips. "It hurts now though," he whispered.

He could feel her wince, and wanted to take back the words.

"I'm just tired. I don't mean...I'm fine. Of course I'm fine. I got my music. My girl. My other girl sitting at home waiting for me."

But Pamela didn't take the bait like she pretended to every other time. She simply sighed.

So Dean went on. "You and Sammy better take care of her. Look after my wheels. I'll come back to haunt you, as the real Demon Dean."

"That's not funny."

"It's a little bit funny."

She was crying now. It hit him in the throat to feel it. Pamela wept silently. He had never known if it was natural or if she was afraid for someone to hear. But there were just tiny intakes of breath, little sighs, and trembling. It broke Dean's heart.

"Pam, please. I'm sorry. I don't...I won't talk about it. I'm sorry."

But she lifted her tear-streaked face to stare into his eyes. "I can't do it, Dean! I know you want me to. The guys could, maybe. Maybe Sam can. But I just can't joke about it. And I can't pretend it isn't coming. And I can't..." Her eyes rolled up to stare blindly at the ceiling as she choked on a sob. When she spoke again, it was with no voice. "I can't pretend like it isn't going to kill me when it does come."

He sat up with her. She had let the bed sheet fall, and simply slumped next to him in all her naked glory, small, round breasts, tiny rolls of skin about her waist, arms hugging her knees, and the cascade of dark hair all around. If she had been smiling, it would have been the image Dean wanted to take to his grave. But she wasn't smiling.

"Dean," she hissed. "I just can't."

He reached for her with strong arms and held her to his bare chest for several minutes. He didn't know what to say. He was afraid too, and Heaven knew he was hurting, and angry. But the most important thing in the world was to comfort her.

"Pam, I'm not going to roll over. You know that. I'll fight this thing. But you heard the doctor. I got a year, and only if I stop everything now. It's too far gone, Pam."

"Sam know that?" she said suddenly, pushing him away to give him an accusing glare. "I don't think Sam knows that."

He took a breath, then stood out of the bed. His whole body ached. He began to gather clothes from his bag. "What is the point in Sam knowing it?"

"He's your brother."

"Which is why I want to keep him happy as long as I can."

"You think Sam is happy?"

Dean's eyes flicked toward her. Her own gaze was low. He sighed, and pulled his jeans on. "I think this would make Sam less happy," he responded. "He knows the basics. And I'm going to talk to him today, on the bus maybe."

"No you won't."

"No I won't," Dean agreed. "But when we get to Tucson..."

She rolled her tear-filled eyes. "When we get to Tucson, you'll find another excuse. And that's another thing. Why are we heading for Tucson at all? Dean, the doctors were clear about this. You have a year if you drop everything now. Now. Not after Tucson. Not after the festival. Not after the album promos. Not after the interviews. Now."

"I told Sammy I wasn't going to do the festival." His voice sounded hollow, even to him. "And I'll tell Jo to book Benny's pretty face for most of the promos."

"And they'll want you instead, and you'll give in and do it, and all the while, you could drop dead at..." She choked back her sobs angrily. "Drop at any moment!" she finished. "I'm talking to Jo first thing in the morning. It's probably in your contract someplace that you tell her anything like this anyway. I'm calling her-"

Dean squared his shoulders and let his green glare bear down on her. "You will not call Jo."

Pamela's eyes were dangerous. "Don't you tell me what to do."

"I am going to tell you what not to do. You call and tell Jo about this, Pam? You tell anybody about this? And I swear to you I will spend my last year alone out of spite."

She burst into fresh tears at the bitter words. "Don't say that, Dean! Don't you dare!" She was screaming now, and he approached her, just to feel her hands slap across his face again and again while she cried.

He took hold of her wrists. "Hey! Hey. Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but you gotta keep this between us. Honest, Pam, if I hadn't had to, I wouldn't have even told you the bottom line. You'd know what Sammy knows, that I'm sick, that it's bad, but that if I take care of it, it'll get better."

"That's what you told him? Dean!"

And now the tears were on his own face, and he could taste salt. He wondered if that was what it tasted like when Sam hit the water years ago.

"Of course that's what I told him. It doesn't matter! Don't you get it? It doesn't matter! I'm not making it another fucking year, Pamela! We both know that! Because I'm not going to stop. I'll give up the festival, because that's the week I'm going to spend getting things in order. I'll settle things with Jo from five hundred miles away in a lawyer's office, make sure she and the label and the guys and crew...make sure you get what you should when I'm gone. Set up my dad. Pay for flowers for my mom for long past when Sammy and Dad are gone and nobody's left to remember her. I'm going to get my car from Bobby's, I'm going to get her back to mint. I'm going to my dad's to go through any stuff I still got there, donate it or trash it or store it for Sam. But then I'm going back on the road with the guys, until it finally kills me. You want the truth? There it is. Because I know you want me to survive more days, Pamela, and I appreciate that. I really, really do. But I want to live more days." He took her wrists and put them behind his neck. "I want to love more days." He leaned down and kissed her gently. "I love you, Pamela."

Her voice was small, nothing like the snarky, menacing smirk of a voice he had fallen for in the beginning. But he adored it all the same. "I love you, Dean," she murmured. "And you know we'll do whatever you want to do about this. But you're not doing any of it alone. Spitefully or otherwise."

Dean stroked her hair from her face, then took a deep breath. "Pam? You're right that it could happen at any minute. And before it does, I...want to say something. It's important."

And it was difficult when she looked up at him like that. Nearly impossible. But so important.

"Benny is a good guy, Pam."

Those eyes closed and anger seethed from her again. "Don't you dare."

Dean stood firm, holding her face in his cupped hands, withstanding the fury. "Pam, he's a good guy. And he'd be good to you. You know he would. And I'm not saying...but I know there's some potential there, some...chemistry or whatever. And if...I'm just saying I want you to be happy, and if that means giving Fang a chance, I'm okay with that. I never want to keep you from being happy. Not now. Not ever. You do what you need. Always."

"I'm not jumping into Fang's bed, Dean."

His eyebrow raised. "Really?"

"Again!" she clarified. "I'm not doing it again! We were both drunk, Dean, you know that! We'd never-"

He kissed her forehead. "Pam, we weren't really together at the time. I'm just saying. One day you're going to want someone to hold. Benny ain't a bad choice."

"I want you."

Dean shook his head at her. "I don't understand why. But in a few months, it won't matter. Be there for my beautiful mind brother, will you? That's all I'll ever ask. He's...I don't know what he will do."

Pamela sighed with exhaustion. "You know you never needed to say that. Dean? Don't you understand that I love you?"

"I understand that you love me, baby. I guess I just never understood what that means." They were words he probably never would have been able to say a few months ago. Amazing how having his head on the chopping block was making him verbose.

She shook her head at him. "For one thing, Winchester, it means I don't need to be told to look out for the person you care about most in this world."

"And my-"

"Yes! And your damn car!"

He laughed at her exasperation. Then he put his arms around her and sighed. He murmured the words to _Pamela_ , the only song Sam had ever written for a woman. He whispered to her about the blooms of aura in her eyes, beast of beauty cutting him to size, the madness in her dancing hips, the crush of darkness in her lips.

"She's the blade I want at my throat," Dean breathed, "and with every last pitch perfect note, she'll be the track to my last thrill, blinded and burnt by looks that kill."

Pamela giggled in spite of the tears. "What was your brother thinking when he wrote that?"

"I think he knew you were the last thing I ever wanted to see. When I go, Pam, I want it to be while you're smirking at me."

She sighed.


	6. Pit (An Interlude)

Sam had only been thirteen the first time Dean had snuck him into a mosh pit. The scene was brutal, bodies everywhere, blood boiling, the collective release of pain and tension through wrath, and Sam had fallen in love with it all. Dean had explained the experience as well as it could be explained to someone who had never been in a pit before.

"You can be as angry as you want to be, so long as you're still in control. It's the mistake new guys make. They get caught up in the wave, but they lose control to it. You gotta be stronger than the wave. It ain't easy."

"I'm always in control, Dean," Sam had said with that tone he used whenever he thought Dean was treating him like a child.

The older boy had smiled. "I'm not saying you're not going to be able to handle it. I wouldn't let you come if you couldn't handle it. But I'm telling you. It ain't easy not to lose yourself when the crowd rages. You start to think you don't wanna do it, or you think you're starting to feel kind of surreal? You let me know. We can watch from the side. We don't have to be in the middle of it all, like Benny and Eli will be."

"What's the point of that? I can stay home and listen to the albums. You told me it's all about feeling the music, not hearing it. That's what piano and guitar are for me. I want to feel this too."

The look Dean gave him was hard to decipher. It was something akin to both awe and amusement. "You're a great musician, Sammy. But this ain't your kind of music. I'm glad you're willing to try it."

"How do I know if it's my kind of music till I feel it?" he said in an exasperated tone.

Dean had just continued to smile, and pushed the Impala to carry them faster.

The pit had been wild. Sam knew instantly what Dean had meant. He had been washed into the wave of intensity right away, had nearly lost himself. But one look into Dean's cool green rage had brought him back. If this was a battlefield, they were the seething warriors in it, not the berserkers. The hunters and not the barbarians.

It was the most alive he had ever felt. That night, at home, while listening to his brother and father shouting about sneaking Sam out of the house and into a metal concert, he set to work writing.

Now it was twelve years later, and he had never stopped.

***

The first time Castiel had seen a mosh pit, he had been twenty-seven and stoned, which was a departure from being twenty-six and drunk, as he had been the night before. The amphetamines were the perfect antidote to the absinthe.

"It really your real birthday?" Ash shouted over the music at the bar.

"Real one," he confirmed moodily.

"Fuck, man! We gotta do something wild!"

"Like cut your hair?"

Ash grinned at him. "Don't get hostile. I got it. My buddy Jo is working a concert for some metalheads. She's gonna see if they got what it takes. But I hear they do a mad mosh up."

"A...mosh pit? You want me to...celebrate my birthday...in a mosh pit?"

It had been a glorious night. He had followed Ash's lead at first, observing. Then inspiration had struck him, and he was in contact with other human-shaped sacks of energy. He remembered very little, except that he had been struck across the face by a man who had immediately checked to make sure he was all right, and then had gone right on slamming into others when Castiel confirmed that he was fine. It was the strangest sociological experience of Castiel's life, and he had decided then and there that he would never again imbibe before moshing, since he wanted access to his entire brain for this, to allow himself every sensation.

His study of and service to Heaven was over. Now he planned to study humanity, and service himself.


	7. Faith

The Demon banged on the door at five o'clock on the dot, as though he were waiting behind the door, staring impatiently at his watch. Sam blinked hard. He and Castiel had passed out after another round, and had only been asleep for a quarter hour. 

He looked down at his lover, tangled in his long limbs and the bedsheets. It was hard not to appreciate how handsome he was, lying there peacefully like that. For all his tattoos, his piercings, for all his blasphemous spite and sacrilegious words, while he was sleeping, Sam could believe he was an angel. It would be difficult to leave this one behind. 

But, angel or no angel, there was a Demon waiting for him. He slid out from under Castiel, and pulled on a pair of pants before opening the door. 

"You sleeping all day?" came the gruff demand. 

"Dude. It's five."

Dean was frowning. "Yeah. And you didn't go out last night. So what's the problem?"

Sam sighed and rubbed his eyes. Most of his brain was still asleep. "Oh. Did you? Go out?"

His brother shook his head. "I would've called you if I did. I didn't feel like it. Just wanted to hang with Pam."

This served to jumpstart Sam's mind. His arm shot out, and he gripped Dean's arm. "Why? You said you were riding a show buzz! What happened? You okay?"

Dean rolled his eyes, then closed them. "Dude, you can't do this."

"What?"

"Turn into a head case whenever I don't feel right. Because I don't. And I won't for a long time. So don't get screwy, thinking I need you hovering. I will punch you in the face."

Sam frowned, but he nodded. "Yeah. Okay. I'm sorry. I just...you haven't told me almost anything. I don't know what to..."

"You gonna let me in the room, or we gonna do this in the hall where somebody will hear it, and it'll be on the gossip magazines?"

He blinked. "Uh..."

His brother's mouth dropped open. "No..." He pushed past Sam to stare. "You do! You still got a punk in your bed! He alive?"

Sam's face twisted to give Dean the best impression of how stupid he felt that question was. "Of course he's alive! Why the hell would you say that?"

"Dude, you haven't let a guy sleep with you since Brady! It makes more sense that you screwed him into a heart attack or he OD'ed!"

It was like he had been slapped. He watched Castiel sigh and shift at Dean's hoarse whisper, but was glad to see he did not awaken. "That's not..."

"What? Not funny? I ain't laughing. Not true? It is true. And even if you let him sleep with you? I walk in the room, and you didn't throw him out? You always throw out anybody who doesn't know to get out."

He shrugged. "You want me to throw him out? I'll throw him out!"

"That's not the..."

Inexplicably, Sam felt anger rise in his chest. "No. You're right. I always drop everything and everyone for you. You walk in the room and nobody else matters. I threw that guy in Seattle out without even letting him find his clothes. Andy had to give him some. That what I should do here? Best screw, best everything I've had in years, I'll just toss him out if you say we need to talk. Because I always drop everything if you need to talk to me. So why the fuck didn't you talk to me?"

"Shh! Shut up, Sammy!"

"Fuck you, Dean! I'm your goddamn brother! You think you're sick, you fucking tell me! There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. Why isn't that enough? You keep things from me, important things-"

Dean's eyes flashed in fury. "I keep things from you? Really? When were you going to tell me about fucking Ty screwing with your head? Huh? Why did I have to hear about you hitting the goddamn river from some chick I don't know, who found my number in your phone?"

Sam clenched his jaw, and felt his hands becoming fists. "You were chasing."

"I wasn't high the whole damn year that Brady was turning your head around!" he hissed. 

"That was years ago, Dean-"

"That was fucking yesterday!" Dean shouted back. 

There was silence in the room. Then, slowly, gracefully, the punk in the bed rolled off of it, entirely naked and unashamed, and found his pants. As they watched, he gathered his things to him, then walked straight to the door. He spared one look at Sam, gave a small smile, and let himself out without a word. 

"No," Sam breathed. He scrambled for his phone and tapped into it. 

"'Morning," Andy sighed. It sounded painful. 

"The guy from last night. He's leaving the hotel. Catch him. Get his information."

Andy was suddenly wide awake. "Am I calling the police?"

"What? No, just...go! Now!"

When he hung up, he turned to glare at Dean. 

"Wow."

"You want to finish this?" he demanded. 

"Finish what, Sam? You keep shit from me, so I can't help you. I keep shit from you because you can't help me. There's a fucking difference."

"I was stupid with Brady!" he shouted. "You...you're not stupid, Dean! You're a fucking genius! So stop acting like an idiot! You're almost thirty!"

"I'm not going to be thirty!" he screamed. 

Sam felt his world crashing over him like waves of water. He stumbled backward to sit hard on the edge of the bed. 

Dean's eyes were closed. His hand was shoved into his cropped hair. "Sam..."

"Tell me the fucking truth. Just once. All our lives. Trust me with the truth just once."

There came a heavy, horrible sigh of defeat, and Dean shrugged. "The truth," he surrendered. "The truth is it fucking hurts, it's hurt for a long time, and I'm scared, okay?"

Sam's heart threatened to tear open into shreds of gore right there. He would have ripped it out of his own chest himself if he thought it would help his brother. "Dean," he breathed in a soft whimper. 

His brother sat beside him somewhat awkwardly, and Sam could see the flicker of pain when he stretched his neck to the side as he did so. Without the makeup and pounding music, Dean looked suddenly much older than he had just the day before. 

And wasn't that ironic?

"Sammy, what's the point, okay? You gonna clean out my kidney somehow? You gonna cut into my head and take out the piece that don't belong? I'm dying, dude. Hell, I never thought I'd see twenty-five. Getting near thirty is just bonus."

"So why can't the...the doctors..." A sob was clutching his throat. 

Dean took a breath. "There's stuff they can do, man, but it's just too far gone. I don't want to spend the last year of my life in hospitals. They could maybe keep me going a few more months. But the kidney is fucked up, and it's spread bad, and the brain thing...It's inoperable. I don't want to be a pin cushion just to say I tried everything, when I can feel in my heart it ain't going to help. I'd rather just keep rocking. Drop dead on stage in front of a pit. How cool would that be?"

"Don't," Sam warned, closing his eyes against the mental image. "Don't. Please don't joke. Don't talk like that, all right? We still have options."

"What options? We got burial or cremation! I know it's not easy. Sam, I'm gonna die. It sucks. But you can't stop it."

His eyes flicked open, and he glared dangerously. "Watch me." He set about the room now, throwing things into bags at random. "You know? This 'laugh in the face of death' thing? It's crap. I can see right through it."

"Yeah, whatever, dude. Have you even slept? You look worse than me."

He turned to look in his brother's eyes. "I'm not giving up on this. I'm not accepting this."

"You're not going to let me die in peace, are you?"

He went back to packing, now with more care. "I'm not going to let you die, period."


	8. Fallen

The bus was ready to roll toward Tucson by six. Andy and Gadreel had practically carried Cain to drop him into his bunk. Benny had snorted, and promptly passed out himself.

"Jesus, Andy. You couldn't have thrown him in the shower first?" Sam complained irritably.

The glare he got from the kid was lethal. "I'm getting in the van now. If anyone needs me...don't."

Gadreel laughed, and followed behind.

But Sam caught his arm. "Hey! Hey, wait."

Both men turned.

He wished Gadreel would just keep walking. He didn't like the guy, and certainly didn't like him knowing any of Sam's business. "Just...Andy," he clarified.

Gadreel shrugged. "Good. Looks like I get the lower bunk, Gallagher. Enjoy sharing with Ansem."

Andy looked way up to meet Sam's eyes with his own weary ones. "Sam? Why do you hate me?"

Sam cringed. He sometimes forgot that he may have chosen Andy, but the rest of the band and crew used him twenty-four hours a day too. "I don't hate you, dude. I'm sorry. I just...did you catch Castiel?"

Andy blinked at him several times. "The...His name's Emmanuel Allen."

"Right. Him."

"Of course I did. You told me to." There was confusion on Andy's tired face. Then he frowned. "Didn't you?"

Sam smiled down at him fondly. "Yeah. And I should know by now that if I asked you to do it, it's done."

He shrugged now, far too exhausted to realize Sam was complimenting him. "I have everything you need to find him again. You want me to-"

"No, man. I want you to sleep. And not with Webber. Here, take my bunk, okay? I'm not using it."

Andy stared at him. "I can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"I..." Andy shook his head then, and gave a sheepish smile. "I don't know why not."

Sam laughed. "Dude, you need real sleep. Give the headset to Max or somebody. Make Ansem earn his keep. You do plenty. Kind of enabling our dependency, you manipulative brat. I don't know what we did without you."

The smile was wide now. "Job security. The more I do for you guys, the faster you forget how to do it yourself."

They shared a glance at Cain, who was precariously half-draped on his bunk.

Andy sighed at him, and walked away to shove the rest of the sleeping man in securely. Cain snored at him. Then he turned back to Sam. "So this guy was...all right?"

Sam snorted. "I ever asked you to get a guy's information before?"

"That one time the dude turned out to be stalking you and your brother."

"That doesn't really count, does it?"

"And there was the girl who was stalking you. Kept saying she was going to make you happy whether you liked it or not. Said you two were already married. Remember that?"

Sam stared at him. "Are there people who could forget about something like that? Rebecca Rosen was the creepiest thing I ever met."

"I'm sure Cain's forgotten."

"That's because she didn't tell the world she was married to Cain. She went by Becky Winchester."

Andy smirked. "Yes. Yes, she did."

"Not funny."

He shrugged, and stifled a yawn. Then he frowned. "Wait, Sam." He touched his headset lightly. "Andy here. Say that again..." The young man's eyes went wide, and he burst past Sam to dive off the bus. "Where's Pam? Call for an ambulance now."

Sam's head jerked up. He reached over and smacked Benny's arm, then raced after the roadie.

Andy was at a full run to the van in the far lot, which held their personal practice instruments. His voice remained calm, but strained. "Don't move him. Anybody know if Demon was chasing last night? Drinking? Anything? Max, you gotta calm down."

At last, they found three of the crew standing over Dean's slumped form. Sam's stomach filled with fear as he dropped himself to the ground beside him, shoving a crewman to the side without seeing his face. "Dean!"

Andy sat on his heels, barking instructions, even to Sam. "Give me that bag. Is he breathing? Webber, go get some ice, and make sure Tommy called an ambulance. Max, get out of the way; you're useless. Fang, go find Pam. Now. Jake? Where's Jake?" He was speaking into the headset again. "Jake? Buddy, call Jo and Ava, tell them we're taking Demon to the hospital. Details soon, but he collapsed in the lot before boarding the bus. No, I don't think so. We won't know about chemicals till we find Pam. Soulless, check his arms. He shoot up today?"

Sam's head was spinning. He had heard Andy's order not to move him, and he knew what that meant, but he desperately wanted to take hold of Dean and support him with his own strength. When he finally received a task, he jumped on it, tearing into Dean's sleeves.

Inside, something was screaming at him that he knew Dean had not OD'ed. He had been with him just a half hour ago. This was the tumor, and it could be it, this could take Dean from him, right now, and he would be alone, angry, grief stricken and alone...

"His arms are clean," he hissed to the only crewman who remained.

"Then time his pulse," Andy ordered.

Sam gave a small whimper.

Andy looked up and into his eyes. "Sam. If you know something, I need you to tell me."

"I can't!"

Andy's gaze seemed to go right through him. It was amazing the way the kid could force the truth out of anyone just by staring him down. It was a gift.

He looked down at his brother, saw how gray his face was, felt how cold his skin was, how the breaths were coming short and fast, how his leg was tucked under where he had fallen...

Fallen. Dean, fallen. Dean, stronger than anyone he had ever known, more solid than a brick wall, fearless, unbreakable big brother Dean...Fallen...

"Sam."

His eyes snapped back to Andy's. "Brain tumor. Just...just diagnosed. He's...he's got kidney cancer. I...I didn't know till...just after the show..."

A look of shock and dread was quickly covered by determination. "Okay. Nobody's going to find out unless Demon wants them to. But I gotta be able to talk to the medics, you know?"

Sam nodded numbly.

"Sam? I think he's gonna be okay. But you gotta keep it together."

Later, he would realize what that meant. Andy didn't want him losing his mind and punching anyone who touched Dean. It was a valid concern. But he nodded and frowned. "I'm fine. Worry about him."

Andy looked at him for another beat, then reached down to open one of Dean's eyes, his mouth. He pointed at the man's wrist, and Sam remembered he had been given a job. He was pretty sure Andy was just keeping him busy and calm, but in case it was actually important, Sam began calculating Dean's pulse rate.

Then there were people everywhere, and noise, and Dean was being carried, and then he was moving and shouting hoarsely; he was throwing weak punches, and two men were holding him down as Andy's smooth voice worked its magic. Pam was there then, demanding shrilly to know what had happened, denying that Dean was on any substance other than coffee, and fighting against panicked tears.

Sam felt as though part of him were watching the proceedings from above them all. Dean was angry, Andy was soothing, Benny and Pam were yelling to be heard. Crew were racing around, cell phones to their ears and chattering on headsets...

A thought came to Sam's mind then, and a strange, dissociated laugh trickled out of his mouth.

Benny whirled on him. "Sam! You okay?"

Hate was wild in his hazel glare, centered back on the bus. He began to walk toward it, fists clenched.

"Hey!" Benny took his arm. "Hey! Little brother! What's wrong with you?"

Sam raised his hand to point at the bus across the lot. "Eli. Fucking Eli. Still asleep. My brother is fucking dying, and Eli is still waiting for an invitation to care. You, you're out here, and Eli...Eli never gave a damn about my brother. He wanted somebody to pull over a fucking cliff with him. When Dean finally said no, he lay his claws and needles into you. That monster, fucking demon, screwed up my brother and then my brother's brother. And I'm going in there to kill him for it."

Benny's face was drawn into a dizzying mix of emotions. "Sam, this ain't about that! Dean wasn't chasing nothing, Pam said. He's clean-"

"You think that means I can't be pissed at Eli? If Cain hadn't been marking up my brother's arm, you think we couldn't have caught this sooner?"

"Dean's been sober for years, Sam! Ever since..."

Tears burst forth, and Sam stumbled. He could hear Dean yelling that he was fine, that he had tripped and hit his head and everyone better get off him before he killed them all, and where was Sammy? The musician laughed madly and looked through tears at Benny. "It's me," he croaked. "It was never Eli. It was me. I wasn't there for him, I didn't...Me and him against the world, Benny. It was supposed to be. And I was so selfish, so self-centered...He needed me and I didn't...And he's had symptoms for months now, probably, and I never noticed. I never..."

Benny's voice was quiet. "You sound just like him. After you..."

"Went swimming?" Sam finished bitterly. "It's what he calls it when he's drunk. The day Sammy went swimming."

"Yeah."

"I can't face him right now. Knowing I..."

The bassist sighed. "Well, I can't let you kill Cain. And I'm gonna guess you aren't ready to tell me what's wrong with Deano. So...I think you better go see him. He ain't dying, Sam. He's yelling too much for that."

He nodded miserably. The dissociation had resolved itself, and voices were now clear and focused. He turned back to hurry toward his brother, chiding himself for having lost his mind in his desperation to find someone to release his wrath into.

He wished Castiel were there.

Dean's eyes locked onto Sam's the moment he was in range. "Sammy!" he bellowed. "Get these people off me!"

Irrationally, Sam wished he could take that as a command to lay into every man there, to physically rip them away from his brother and pound them into the pavement. Instead, he growled, "If you ain't Andy, Pam or a fucking medic, get back to work getting us ready to launch for Tucson. And not a word on social media or any shit like that, or I will personally kick your ass and then Jo will fire you."

The crew scattered like bugs. Benny snorted at them. "You all right, brother?" he called.

"I'm good. Just like the attention."

"I think you've had enough for today," Benny replied.

"Go the fuck to sleep. You don't see Eli up wandering around gawking at me like an idiot."

Sam's eyes flashed and his nostrils flared at the reminder.

Benny laughed quietly. "Yeah. But I wouldn't mention that to your baby brother." He winked at Sam, and stepped back toward the bus.

Andy was talking to the emergency medical team, then he nodded and looked back at Pam. "Hey," he said gently. "I'm going to talk to the hotel manager. She's been pitching a fit and I think if Tommy tells her to calm down again, she's going to call the cops. You okay? What can I get you?"

Pamela was rubbing her bare arms as if she were cold. "No, nothing. Thank you, Andy. I should be the one doing that."

He shook his head. "Nah. The Demon needs you, and Sam's about to kill somebody. I'm better off over there anyway, in case he picks me." He gave her a half-smile, then walked toward the hotel while muttering instructions into his headset.

Pamela stared blankly as the medic finished checking Dean's vitals again. Sam could feel her trembling without even touching her.

The man nodded. "Okay. So I can't make you go to the hospital. But I do advise you to. From what we can tell, Mr. Winchester, you had a seizure."

"I thought seizures..."

He glanced at Pamela. "In some cases, a seizure doesn't include movement, just loss of consciousness. And you said the last thing you remember was coming out of the back of the van."

Dean nodded, eyes lowered.

"It could have just been bad timing. You weren't steady on your feet when the seizure came on, and you dropped. I don't know, and I can't know unless you let the docs run their tests. A thing like this, it could be a sign of-"

"I know what it's a sign of," Dean snapped. "And more tests ain't gonna tell me anything I don't already know. So everybody just leave me alone. I'm fine now. So let's get on the road, for fuck's sake. I got a show to prep." With that, the man shoved himself up and past them all, and stalked toward the bus. Pamela raced after him.

The medic turned to Sam. "Look, I'm a fan. My girlfriend's in love with your bassist. So I get it. You gotta get to your next show. And this might have been nothing. But it might have been something real bad. Might be worth disappointing some ticket holders to take the time to go get checked at a hospital. There will be other shows."

Sam smiled weakly. "You try telling my brother that."

"I did. So now I'm telling you. I got a kid brother. If it were him, I'd grab him by the collar and take him to the hospital. Let the docs sort it out, then listen to his I told you so later if he's fine. Beats the hell outta losing him."

Sam flinched. "Yeah. Well, I'll see if I can get hold of his collar by the time we're in the next city."

"Hope so. Good luck."

He waited for it.

"And, hey. Could I, um...get a photo with you? I swear I won't post it anyplace. Just like, for me and my girl."

He tried to smile. "Of course, man. If you do post it, just do us a favor and say you just ran into us. We don't want our business out there."

Twenty minutes later, Sam was about to board the bus again, when he heard Andy call to him.

He turned and stared numbly. It took a moment for his mind to begin working properly, but when it did, he sighed out exhausted relief, and smiled a real smile.

"Hello, Sam."

He took a deep breath. "Andy, I'm going to text Jo and tell her you deserve a raise," he sighed.

Andy chuckled wearily. "Yeah. I'd just be happy if you let me take you up on the bunk thing."

"All yours," he breathed. But his eyes were on the man beside him.

Andy winked and slapped him on the arm as he walked past.

"Castiel. He found you."

The man shrugged. "It wasn't so hard. I checked into a room after leaving yours. Said I was with the band, so your manager will find that it's been added to your bill."

Tension melted away as he burst into laughter. "Nobody ever thought to try that before!"

The blue eyes held his smirk more than his lips. "That's what you get for not choosing toys with some cunning in the past. I'm no angel. But I think you liked that about me."

"Let me buy you another night in a hotel. In Tucson."

Castiel snorted. "Aren't you supposed to wait four days before approaching me again, so as not to seem too eager? It hasn't been four hours."

Sam smiled. "I know what I'm about."

"I know what you're about too. Will I be getting any sleep on this trip?"

"Barely."

The grin formed slowly. "Good." He took a breath. "A friend will look in on my room for me."

"Your...room? Like an apartment?"

"I live in the back of a roadhouse. Easier than driving home after spending all night there. Me and Ash rent rooms. He'll keep an eye on mine."

"What...what do you do for money?"

"Credit card fraud, mostly."

Sam stared at him.

He chuckled softly. "I sell ad space over the phone, Sam. I'm not exactly cubicle material, but I'm not cooking meth in my basement either."

"Oh."

"For a hardened metalhead, you're kind of easy to screw with."

"Rolling out in five!" Andy shouted to anyone in hearing range.

"You're gonna drop everything and come with me to Arizona?"

"If you'd like."

There had been hundreds, maybe thousands, of people who would have done the same if given the chance. But this was Castiel. Sexy, cynical, possibly schizophrenic, beautiful Castiel.

"Give your sizes to Andy. He'll arrange for some clothes to be waiting for you at the hotel."

"The kid that called me? The one who thinks I'm forty years old?"

It was Sam's turn to smirk. "He says that to every guy. I don't fuck anybody under twenty-five, as a rule. Too complicated. Andy likes to pretend he's shocked I chose somebody so old." He leaned down to touch his lips to Castiel's ear. "You know, for a jaded priest, you're kind of easy to screw with."

Castiel looked up at him with something unreadable in his eyes. "So? Where do we go?"

"Bus," he said, and grabbed the man's hand. "The others are passed out in their bunks. So the living area is all ours."

"How big is this fucking bus?"

"It's big enough to throw you down in without waking up anyone else." He then put his soft lips against Castiel's, delighting in the tiny gasp he could feel. "Or big enough to lie together under a blanket and rest while we pretend nobody else exists."

"I like both, but can I have that second one now? Somebody kept me up all night."

Sam nodded. "Same here."

It had been a horrible morning, but the bus was as peaceful as it had ever been. Cain, Benny and Andy all snored mercilessly in their bunks. Pamela and Dean were crushed into his together, and they whispered for a while, then they slept too.

Sam and Castiel lay on the floor of the bus, between the leather couches, on cushions they had gathered, under two blankets, entangled together. After a quarter hour of quiet, just listening to the rhythm of the road, Sam began to weep soundlessly. Castiel held him tight on his bare chest, and stroked his hair, and kissed his head, without speaking until they both fell asleep. Most of the day passed in this way.


	9. Remember

Being entrusted with a miracle was one of the last things Castiel would wish on another person. Because it wasn't about the miracle at all. If God had wanted to heal a blind man, wouldn't the blind man just suddenly be able to see? Why would a person need to be a conduit for divine power like that? No, it was about the person given the task, and not the task itself. And that was maddening for someone who had always striven to bury his own personality in humility.

Emmanuel Castiel Allen had only been Father Allen for a very short time before God had chosen to work through him. And when it had happened, he had hurried back to his own priest, his mentor, to find out what it meant.

Father Shurley was everything to Castiel. He had been a junior priest when Castiel had been a newborn, tossed into a plastic bag and left to die in an alley in a deteriorating part of Detroit. The hospital where Father Shurley did much of his community work had asked if he would like to name the tiny survivor. The young man had been fascinated with the child.

"Emmanuel. God is with us," he murmured.

The nurse had looked up. "What?"

"That's what Emmanuel means. Emmanuel Castiel."

She had smiled indulgently. "Would you like to spell that one for me, Father?"

He did so, still staring at the eyes that blinked at him. "Will his eyes be so blue as he gets older?"

"Probably not. So Emmanuel Castiel."

"Yes. God is with us. And Castiel is the name of an angel sent to observe humanity. The angel of solitude, the angel of Thursday. Thursday's child has far to go..."

"Father?"

"I'm sorry. Yes. Castiel. Sometimes the angel is called Cassiel, or Qafsiel. But this little angel looks like a Castiel, don't you think?"

She had chuckled. "I think he looks like trouble. But that's why they didn't let me name him. Emmanuel Castiel. Doesn't roll off the tongue, Father."

"Castiel Emmanuel?"

She shook her head. "I'm not doing that to this poor kid. Emmanuel Castiel it is then."

Father Shurley had smiled, and that was that.

Castiel didn't know that story, of course. He knew only that the Catholic mission that took him into their foster program had their hands full trying to place him. He had overheard a conversation between two of the women there once, expressing exasperation.

"He's just adorable! Why wouldn't anyone want this precious little thing?"

"They all say the same thing. There's something unusual about him."

"Of course there is! He's a perfect angel! He always has been!"

"I don't know. All I know is Father Shurley doesn't want him to leave until we've found just the right placement. He doesn't understand how difficult it is..."

Castiel was grateful for all they tried to do for him. He stayed at the Catholic boys' home, and learned everything anyone would teach him. But his favorite teacher was Father Shurley. He adored the man so much, he had sometimes wondered if it were a sin. There was never a time that the priest smiled at him that Castiel didn't feel certain he was in the presence of one of the Saints. Over time, he met quite a few priests or other church leaders who were corrupt, weak-willed or just mean. But Father Shurley was a peaceful, sweet slip of a man, a true servant of the Holy.

Before long, the mission gave up trying to find a family for Castiel, and he could not have been happier to simply become, as Sister Mary Constant had called him, a little church mouse. He had been her self-proclaimed aide and student in all things. He had fallen in love with her immediately, and guarded her needs with fierce loyalty. She was eighty-three when she finally passed, and the last time she saw him, she had taken his hand in both of hers.

"Emmanuel," she had said softly. "You're a good boy."

"Thank you, Sister," the thirteen year old said happily.

"You're very special to our Lord, you know."

"Yes, Sister. We all are."

She had smiled. "Hm. Well, you make Father Shurley very proud. And no matter what happens, Emmanuel, remember your name."

His head tilted slightly in concentration. "My name? You mean Ambrose?"

Sister Mary Constant had laughed wearily. "No, love, not your patron. Your name, given to you by Father Shurley. Just...remember, child."

"Yes, Sister, I will. How can I help you today?"

"No, Emmanuel. Not today. Today, I think I'll sit alone in the courtyard and just be quiet for a time."

He had nodded. "Yes, Sister. Maybe I could read to you later, if you want."

She touched his cheek then. It was something she had never done before, and it was the softest gesture he had ever felt. Suddenly, his eyes filled with tears and he felt dizzy, off-balance. He cringed with the intensity of it all, with the rush of affection for the old nun, and something like panic and promise flooding over him. "Remember, Castiel," she had murmured then. "Before it's too late for you."

When his eyes had cleared, Castiel was standing alone. He assumed Sister Mary Constant had retired to the courtyard as she had planned. After dinner, the boys were told that Jesus had called her home.

Castiel had been the only one to weep.

Ten years later, he was Father Allen. Two years after that, he had performed a miracle while praying over a blind man, and upon returning to his old church in Detroit, he learned that Father Shurley was gone, a missing person. A year later, he had taken an indefinite leave of absence and abandoned his cloth in the wake of a motorcycle.

And now, two years after that, he was on a bus to Tucson, holding a classical pianist in the guise of a gorgeous metalhead, who had just fallen asleep while sobbing into the older man's chest.

***


	10. Alive

Sam looked around him in misery. There was too much white, too many wires, too many tiny lights, too many severe smells. 

He had made things worse. 

The only hand that moved on his command lifted to dig the heel of the palm into his brow, as though he could push out this new reality. A strangled sob was emitting from his throat when the door swung open and a large man stormed in. 

"Dean," he whimpered. 

"What the hell, Sammy? What the actual, fucking fuck? You need something, you fucking call me! You don't...What the fuck were you thinking?"

Sam immediately burst into tears. "I'm so sorry."

Dean's eyes narrowed, and he stared into his brother's eyes intrusively. "No," he decided. "No, you're not. Not for what you should be sorry for. You're sorry for the wrong thing!"

Anger pumped through him then, and his hoarse shout came out pitiful but sure. "I'm sorry I lived!" he croaked. "I'm sorry I'm bringing more expenses on you and Dad, when you don't have the money to deal with it. I'm sorry I can't do a fucking thing right for my family! I'm sorry I can't...I'm here, soaking up money you don't have, making everything worse for you and Dad, and...and him..."

The green eyes flashed in rage. "Him who? Brady? That him? That sleazy-"

"Stop!" Sam wailed. "He's the only thing other than you I ever loved!"

Dean was shaking his head. He sighed and pulled a chair alongside his brother's hospital bed with a weariness far beyond his years. "Sammy," he said gently, "this ain't love. Okay? This is manipulation. This is not love. You don't love him. And you aren't capable of loving anyone. Not right now. I know you, man. Better than I know anything, I know you. You're so angry you don't have room for anything else. Not even me."

It was impossible to fall lower, Sam had thought. But at least forty hours ago, he had felt like he could do something to make the world a better place. Now, he wasn't sure it wasn't better to just go to sleep and hope he didn't wake up. 

"Sam, we'll talk about the rest later. I'm just so, so glad you're okay."

"I disgust Brady. I'm a burden on Dad. I hurt you. Please tell me the upside of me being alive?" Sam shook his head as much as his injuries would allow. He wished they would stop giving him painkillers. They were so expensive, and he wanted the pain. He deserved the pain. "You know what I thought of as I stepped off the bridge? It was how many times I let you down. I can't do that anymore."

Dean's shaking hand scrubbed down his face. "Jesus. Sammy, why didn't you call me?"

He snorted as the mix of surreal, dissociated thoughts and nightmares swirled in his head. "I did call you, man. I called to say goodbye. You were with the guys. With your damn needles, the same damn needles that took Brady from me. You don't need me. I could hear that over the phone. You got Eli. And Fang. You don't need a kid brother letting you down anymore."

"Hold on, hold on. You seriously think that? Because none of it-none of it!-is true. Listen, man, I know we've had our disagreements. Hell, I know I've said some junk that set you back on your heels. But, Sammy, come on. I'd sell my damn soul for you. Don't you dare think that there is anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you. It has never been like that, ever. I need you to see that. I'm begging you."

Sam's tears were flooding his face now, and his brother was holding his hand, trembling badly. For the first time, maybe in his whole life, there was suddenly more fear than anger and self-loathing in his heart. He nodded in jerky movements. "How do I stop?" he hissed. 

Relief brightened Dean's gray face. "Just let it go."

"I can't," he whimpered. "It's in me, Dean. You don't know what this feels like!"

His hand squeezed Sam's protectively. "Hey, listen. We will figure it out. Okay? Just like we always do." He put his other hand on Sam's cheek to pat it gently. "Come on." He was over Sam then, and the hug was awkward with the IV, and the wires and angle, but it was absolutely the best contact Sam had ever allowed himself before. He didn't want it to end. "Come on. Let it go. Okay? Let it go, brother."

A thick sob wrenched from his throat. 

Dean flinched at the sound, but his arms remained strong. "Sam? I got you, little brother. You're gonna be just fine."

And now he was lying in the arms of a world-weary, jaded young priest, on a bus to Tucson, as if his brother and hero were not dying just a few feet away.


	11. Burn

The crew moved like zombies into the hotel. Castiel learned that it had been booked in a hurry, that they had planned to sleep in the vans and bus, but after the incident that morning, getting a room again had suddenly seemed a better idea. The show was not for another twenty four hours.

Castiel watched the parade of metalheads and their handlers carrying bags and cases into the hotel. He smiled with a strange fondness as he realized neither of the guitarist brothers had bothered with pulling on their socks and boots, and were trudging in their bare feet. They did not even seem to notice the loose pebbles of pavement in the parking lot.

Andy's eyes were less bruised, his smile tight but believable now that he had gotten sleep. He floated around the activity with confidence, directing the small army of roadies. Pamela squeezed his shoulder once, then walked with Dean into the lobby, nodding silently at Sam's insistence that she call him if Dean needed anything. Dean himself looked like death warmed over, and not in the metalcore way. Getting himself into the hotel under his own steam seemed to take everything he had.

Sam glanced around bleakly until his gaze fell on Castiel. He smiled, and the lost expression faded. "Hey," he murmured. "Come up with me."

Castiel nodded.

Andy hurried to them. "Sam, a package for Mr. Allen will be sent up to the room later. Clothes and things."

Sam shook his head. "No. Nobody comes up but you or Demon. I can't...deal with anyone else right now. You bring it up. I...It's not a good idea for anybody else to knock on my door tonight."

Andy nodded sadly. "Yeah. Okay. Just don't hit me."

"That's why it better be you," Sam warned. There was danger in his tone, a rumble of controlled fury that Castiel was beginning to think was always just beneath Sam's first layer of skin.

Andy gave him another sigh and stepped back into the activity around them.

"Has to be him because you won't hit him?"

Sam turned to walk toward the elevator with the keys Andy had handed him. "Has to be him because I have hit him. And he took it pretty well, considering."

Castiel stared at him. "You punched your roadie?"

"Broke his nose."

"Wow."

Sam stabbed at the elevator button. "It was a bad day. Jo threatened to come kick my ass if she got any more medical or damages bills due to my temper. I had to stop punching things altogether, she said, not just roadies. Walls too."

Castiel followed him onto the elevator when it opened. "Gone are the good old days when a metal band can destroy a motel without consequences," he teased quietly.

"I know, right?"

When the doors closed, Sam was on him. There was none of the violent shoving and growling from before. This was simply insistent need. His teeth grazed Castiel's throat without bringing pain, his fingers took hold of his waist without digging in. Castiel found himself sighing into a kiss.

Sam took his hand with his left, and when they reached the room, he dropped his bags to the floor to open it with his right. Once inside, he kicked his bags in, and pulled Castiel to the bed.

But Castiel shook his head. "Shower."

Sam's lips curled back into a frustrated snarl through clenched teeth.

"I just dropped my life to ride almost nine hundred miles on the floor of a tour bus wrapped in a two hundred pound, six foot four man. You can growl all you want, but I'm taking a shower."

The snarl faded into a sheepish whimper. "Fine. Go ahead."

Castiel raised an eyebrow at him. "Follow me in a few minutes."

A light came back to Sam's eyes. "I can do that."

Castiel went to the bathroom to use the toilet and brush his teeth with the items sitting out for them. He stepped into the shower and hurried to scrub the road off of him. He had just rinsed the shampoo from his hair when he heard Sam padding in. He smiled to himself.

"Can I come in?"

Castiel loved the contrite little pout in Sam's voice. "What's the magic word?" he teased.

"Fucking-"

"Try again."

The shower curtain ripped aside to reveal a glorious, naked man with irritation on his face. "Please, damn you."

Castiel laughed. "When you ask so nicely, how can I say no?"

Sam rolled his eyes and stepped into the tub. He was watching Castiel with a softening curiosity and a hardening physiology. "Jesus. You're fucking beautiful. I mean...if I didn't want to fuck you so bad, I could stand here and watch you like this all night."

"Hm. Must be quite the conflict in your head."

Sam's hands were on his hip bones now. "There's no conflict," he assured him as he bent at the neck to mouth at Castiel's ear. "I want to be in you. I need to be in you."

A shiver pushed him closer into Sam's grasp, even as the warm water flowed over them both. He drew in a thick breath, and felt Sam's right hand reach beneath him to seek out his hole without pretense. "Sam," he sighed.

It had been a long time since he had been with the same lover twice in a row. Castiel was uninterested in anything long term, even without romantic feelings becoming involved. But having felt Sam writhing beneath him, inside him, twice already, Castiel was growing harder with every breath, anticipating what was coming.

He was so turned on, he was tempted to try to take the man with just some soap to ease his way, and just let it burn.

But he knew he wouldn't appreciate that pain later. So he settled for lowering himself to his knees and letting the water pour down on him while he took Sam into his mouth.

The musician moaned obscenely, taking hold of the dark hair. "Cas, yes."

The corners of Castiel's mouth stretched to accommodate his prize, and he stared up at Sam, meeting that hazel amazement smugly. He knew what kind of vision he made like this. He badly wanted to touch himself too, but instead, he reached up to push Sam's hips forward and shove him deeper into his throat.

Sam had not been a talker the night before. Not like Castiel was. He had groaned appreciatively, and mumbled what could only be described as complimentary profanity. But there was no real talk.

This time, though, with Castiel's mouth full, Sam began a hoarse monologue of praise. It shocked Castiel, shocked him far more how much he liked it.

"Cas," Sam muttered as his eyes rolled back. One hand stayed tangled in dark hair, and the other braced his weight on the shower wall behind him. "Cas, you're beautiful. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever had, you know that? A string of forgettable pretty punks, never thought of any of them again...You, I couldn't stand to see walk away. So beautiful. Smarter than any of them. Don't-uh! God! Don't ever let me get away with bullshit-Keep me human. I like that. I forget how, but you...you make me remember. Jesus, Cas. You feel so good. So good-and I don't...deserve...Cas!"

Castiel pulled off of him and spat into the shower drain. His eyes were watering badly, and he had to rub them before he could see again. Then Sam was kneeling beside him, whispering.

"Let me. Let me," he murmured, as his hand reached down to return the favor.

Castiel stared at him as he built up to the edge right away. He watched in complete surrender, falling deeper into the man's eyes. When he came, it was nearly painful, and he groaned and pitched forward with the force of it, catching himself on Sam's strong chest with his palm.

A scream erupted from his lover then, and his eyes flew open. To his horror, he found himself eye level with a handprint burned into Sam's skin.

He scrambled backward in the water, slipping and falling to his back with a crash. "Jesus and Mary," he breathed.

Sam reached for him, but he pushed him back.

"Don't touch me!" he shouted. "Don't fucking touch me!"

But Sam was grabbing his wrists, bruising them to hold down Castiel's panic. "Hey! Hey, Cas, hey! Okay. You're okay. It's okay. It doesn't hurt anymore, see? It's fine; it's sort of...cauterized..."

Castiel stared at him in horror. His body stilled under Sam's, but tears were welling in his eyes. "How can you...Why aren't you..."

"Just calm down. Come on. Let's rinse off. Get out and put some clothes on, okay?"

Painful sobs were choking him, but he nodded. They washed up in water that was cooling rapidly, then stepped out to shiver into towels. Sam led him to the bedroom, and they found a box awaiting them just inside the door, with a note for Sam to text Andy if something didn't fit properly.

Castiel pulled on a pair of boxers and comfortable, black lounging pants, and pulled on the gray tee over his chest. He felt numb everywhere.

Sam skipped boxers and threaded his long legs through his own pants. Then he went to the mirror to look at his chest.

The older man squeezed his eyes shut.

"Well," Sam said after another moment in silence, "I'm glad I got to finish first."

Castiel's eyes and mouth popped open. "How can you even joke about this?"

"I'm not joking. I'm really glad you got me off first. Blood's one thing, but smelling fried skin while getting blown really isn't a kink of mine." He looked back to smirk at Castiel.

He shook his head, stomach churning. "My God, you're the Devil," he hissed into his knees as he trembled on the bed.

Sam shrugged. "Says the dude that just burned a hole into my breast when he orgasmed."

"How can you joke about this?" he wailed in a low voice.

His lover sighed and sat on the bed next to him. "Look. Will it make you feel better if I tell you it freaks me the fuck out? Because it does. But I don't think that's really going to make you less upset."

"No. But it might make me think I'm not crazy."

Suddenly, Sam began to laugh. "No," he confirmed. "No, I think you can finally rule schizophrenia out. I'm a musician, not a doctor, but I'm fairly certain burning a fucking handprint into a guy while he rubs you out is not a symptom of schizophrenia."

"What then?" Castiel couldn't help how shrill he was sounding.

"I don't know. Have you been struck by lightning or bitten by a radioactive fire ant or something?"

"Of course not."

"Then I'm going to go with some freak electrical thing. Okay? Like getting shocked when you touch the doorknob." He put his arm around the man and pulled him tight against him. "It's okay, Cas. I know you're freaked out, but it was probably me, right? I was leaning against the wall, probably touched something I shouldn't have somehow. I'm just glad it's in a cool pattern, and is on my chest and not my dick, right?"

Castiel sniffed, and huffed out a chuckle. "Right."

Sam looked down at the mark on his chest. "Kind of badass, actually. If I could have, I might've gotten it years ago."

"You're incredible."

"I am. Are you kidding? A few strokes from my hand, and you conduct lightning from yours? I'm fucking awesome."

Castiel shoved him, but couldn't bite back his smile. "You're okay."

"Awesome," Sam insisted. "I'm writing a song about this as we speak."

"You better not."

Sam lay back on the bed, and pulled Castiel down to rest his head on the less burned portion of his chest. "Something about going down on Thor's hammer, and I'll find a way to rhyme awesome fuck with lightning struck."

"You're an asshole."

He laughed quietly. They were silent for a moment, then he combed his fingers through Castiel's hair. "I'm glad you came."

"I burned you when I came. How can you be glad-"

He swatted Castiel's ass with his other hand. "I mean that I'm glad you came to Arizona with me, jackass."

"Oh."

"Aren't you?"

He closed his eyes, and felt his trembling subside as Sam continued clawing gently through his hair. "I don't know yet," he confessed. "I want to be."

"Do you need something? I don't know how this goes, when you actually care about a guy being happy. So if you want something, you gotta tell me. Whatever it is, I'll take care of it. I just...probably won't know."

The ghost of a smile crept into his face. "Wow. That was...that was really honest."

"Surprised me too."

He snorted. "Don't hurt yourself. I'm not going to ask for much. Clean scene is all I need." But the words felt hollow somehow.

Sam must have heard it too. He repositioned them so he could look in Castiel's face. "All you need. But what do you want?"

He closed his eyes against the man's charisma, wished he could block out the delicious smell too. "Clean scene," he choked out blindly. "That's all. Not like this is anything real. Just some fun, right? Blowing off steam before I gotta catch a bus back home."

He could hear Sam's frown. "Yeah. Just blowing off steam. Till you gotta go."

Because that was what it had to be. This was Soulless Sam of Croatoan, and he was Emmanuel, the fallen priest of St. Ambrose, and neither of them had the capacity for anything more than that. Sam had given himself over to a demon who had used him up and spat him out back at school. Castiel had given himself to his God with all his heart, until he was hollowed out, and there was nothing left to give.

He didn't know what it was he was helping Sam through, though he suspected Dean was at the center of it, considering how everyone was walking on eggshells around him. But that was all he was to Sam, a painkiller for a few nights. Another pretty punk to use and drop off somewhere, and never think of again.

Castiel smiled wearily into the man's strong chest.

"At least I left my mark on you before we go our separate ways."

Sam held him tighter, and laughed, but Castiel could swear it sounded like a sigh.


	12. Suffer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suffer ye thus far...

The room grew dark around them. Sam's hand continued to comb through Castiel's hair long past when the man had stopped trembling and fallen into a hard sleep.

How long had it been since Sam had slept with a man? Dean was right. He hadn't allowed a man to stay more than a few hours in his company for years. Since Brady.

Brady.

He had been convinced Brady was the love of his life. Now it had been so long that he couldn't remember what he had even liked about the man. There had been a ruthless magnetism, which had gripped Sam by the throat without mercy. Brady had never missed the opportunity to remind Sam that there were others who wanted him. Even before the needles, there were the nights spent wondering if Brady was coming home, and who he might smell like when he did. Because Sam could always smell it.

He had written about it once, about smelling another man on his lover. He had named it _Humiliation_ , and Dean had refused to sing it once he had figured out that these were memories for Sam.

"Oh, what, now all of the sudden my shit's too dark for you?" Sam had snapped.

Dean had stabbed his finger into the sheet music. "This? This ain't dark, okay? This is fucked up."

Cain had laughed. "What the hell could possibly be so fucked up The Demon won't play it?"

Sam glared at his brother. "It's good. Just play it."

Benny had remained diplomatically quiet, tuning his bass without comment.

But Dean was never one for diplomacy. "Eli, you remember asking me over a blunt a week back what I'd do if there were no consequences?"

Cain grinned. "Yeah."

Benny was shaking his head.

"That's him. That's the asshole Sam's writing about."

"Wait, what? What the hell did you say about Brady while you were smoking?"

Benny cleared his throat. "Said he'd kill a guy, Tyson Brady, if he could."

"I said I'd help," Cain cackled.

Sam whirled on his brother. "Just play the damn song! Took me days to write it-"

"Days spent thinking of that asshole humiliating you!" Dean roared. "I'm not playing that shit!"

"You'll play me diving off a fucking bridge, but not-"

Dean had thrown his fist into Sam's face before he could finish, and the conversation dissolved into a brawl. Sam had been too angry to hear Cain laughing uproariously, or to see Benny trying to rip the brothers apart.

The song had never been played.

But Sam could hear the words in his head now, and they made him physically sick. He was finally able to admit, at least to himself, that he was grateful Dean had refused to play it. It was different from _Cage Diving_. He had not understood that at the time. But _Cage Diving_ wasn't about Brady; it was about Sam, about the demons in his own head. _Humiliation_ was purely about the way Tyson Brady had twisted his guts into a frayed knot every time he slept with someone else.

He had confronted Brady time and again about it. He had laughed every time.

"Sam, you know I don't go out looking for somebody to go home with. Sometimes it just happens, you know? You and me...Sam, we're so far beyond what normal couples are, what normal friends are. The rules other people have for their little games, they don't apply to us, baby! Right? What we are isn't even definable. Why would what I do with some dude at a party or something have anything at all to do with how I feel about you? We're so much better than that."

Sam had nodded slowly. He had accepted this explanation each time Brady had come home late, or not at all, and he had felt like the selfish one for being hurt by it. He had scolded himself mercilessly.

Lying there with Castiel now, he cringed to remember the countless nights he had spent practicing at the piano, alone in the apartment, unable to make his hands obey simple commands, while his mind tormented his aching heart.

"It doesn't matter," he muttered to himself over and over. "Why would it matter? He always comes back to me eventually, so who cares? Fucking needy child. Lucky he comes back home at all. Could have anybody, and he comes home to me, and what do I do? I can't just be glad to see him, to have him back. I gotta know where he's been. I can't just let it go. And one day, he's going to get tired of living with a fucking needy child, tired of coming home to questions he shouldn't have to answer, and he's going to leave, and I'll die. I'll know I pushed him away by being too needy, by trying to hold him down, and I'll die. So he fucks another guy now and then. Who the hell cares? What is that compared to what we have? I'm not enough for him; the least I can do is let him get what he needs in peace."

Somehow, every time Sam got angry, Brady had punched it out of him with a dose of guilt that sent him reeling, and the night became about Sam begging forgiveness, asking to make it up to him. Sam couldn't have counted every variation of "I'm so sorry. It's my fault. I make you go out and find other guys. I'm so sorry. Please, just give me another chance. I won't be angry, Ty, please. Whatever you need. Please, I love you so much."

Inevitably, Sam would win Brady back with more sex, and then would cry himself to sleep as quietly as he could, after Brady kissed him and told him, "It's all right, Sam. I'm not leaving you. Nobody loves me like you do." Sam had spent too many nights breathing in the cologne of another man while Brady snored on his chest, as he made promise after silent promise that he would be less angry and selfish tomorrow.

Castiel smelled like clean.

Sam's eyes opened. He had no idea how long he had been dozing, but when the thought occurred to him, he startled awake.

Certainly, there was no other man's scent on Castiel. But it was more than that. Castiel smelled clean. Entirely clean.

Sam thought back, a strange tingle forming in his mind. Castiel was always clean. Even after the pit. Even after sex. Even after being on a bus for thirteen hours.

Sam touched his burned skin tenderly. There was no pain. He had told Castiel it must have been a fluke, but what the hell could have caused it? It had certainly hurt at the time. It had felt like Sam's whole body had fire rushing through every vein. But it was only for that moment, and now...

And now, Sam felt clean too.

The idea thrust itself upon him in a giddy way. Clean, just like Castiel. As if something had been burned out of him, something dirty and wrong.

With a widening of his eyes, his lips parted in surprise. "I'm...not angry."

"Mm?" Castiel hummed from his chest.

Sam wanted to shush him, tell him to go back to sleep. But he took an experimental breath, and felt nothing but relief and peace rolling into him. It was subtle, but alien.

"Sam?"

His whole body had been flushed clean. His blood had burned like antiseptic on a cut, had stung everywhere, and now...now it was clean. He was clean.

Castiel looked up at him with sleep in his eyes. "Sam? Are you all right?"

"I don't know."

The blue gaze narrowed. "What do you need? What's wrong?" Then he drew in a gasp. "Is it-God. Is it the burn?"

"No. No, I don't...Cas," he whispered as emotions swarmed his mind. "Cas, tell me again about the blind man. And this time, show me what you did."

Castiel winced. "Sam, I don't tell anyone that story once, let alone twice."

"Please."

The simplicity of the request made Castiel sigh. He sat up miserably, and shrugged. "There was a man. A blind Hispanic man on the street, and he was begging. I gave him some coins, then asked if he minded me praying over him. I told him I was a priest, asked if I could...Of course, he thanked me, and I lay my hand on his forehead-"

"Show me."

He heaved a sigh. "Sam," he groaned, but he reached up and placed his left hand on Sam's head. "This happened that the works of God may be displayed in you, and I would do the works of Him that sent me. Lord, please keep this child in your heart. I feel that he is a true believer. Let him see your glory if not your world. Give him strength of faith where vision fails him. Heal his soul and hold it dear so that he might know Your love eternally. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I pray for Your mercy."

The great flash of white lightning filled the room and Castiel's eyes struck an electric blue. As Sam's own eyes recovered from the first bolt, he saw great shadows appear on the wall with every flash of electric power.

Then it was gone, as though it had never been.

And Sam couldn't breathe. "Your face," he hissed. "Cas, your face!"

Horror filled Castiel's features then, and he backed away, scrambling off the bed. "What are you saying?" he shouted in a fit of anger.

Sam tried again to take a breath, but he gagged suddenly. "Cas," he choked. "Can't...can't breathe..."

Tears streamed down the man's face, and he gave a feral sort of cry. "Don't do this to me!" he screamed. "You're the only one I ever trusted with this; don't you do this to me! Laugh or call me a freak, but don't do this! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Cas," he begged.

"You are soulless, aren't you?" Castiel spat. He snatched at his wallet and dove from the room, slamming the door behind him.

All at once, Sam felt air flush back into his lungs, and he gulped it in. After several breaths, he tried to stand, and fell back to the bed. When the dizziness finally passed, he pushed himself up to follow Castiel into the hall. He ran down the stairs in his bare feet and bare chest, the handprint bright red for the world to see, but Castiel was gone. He ducked out the entrance and looked up and down the street, but the man was nowhere to be found.

"Dammit, Cas!" he shouted. After a moment spent glowering into the night, he padded back into the hotel. The clerk stared at him. "What room's Dean Winchester in?" he demanded.

"I-I'm not supposed-"

He groaned. "Wes Smith. What room is Wes Smith in? I'm his goddamn brother. I want his room number."

"Mr. Smith isn't supposed to be disturbed..."

"You tell me where to find him or I'll disturb the whole fucking hotel, beginning with you."

A minute later, he was pounding on a door. When it flew open, Sam pushed past Pamela to stalk into the room and flip the lamp switch on.

Dean groaned loudly, covering his face. "What the fuck, Pamela!"

"Don't look at me. It's Soulless."

The older man opened his eyes and struggled to sit up. "Sammy?" he croaked hoarsely. "Sammy, what's wrong? What do you need?"

Sam's chest ached to see Dean so gray. Even his green eyes were dull. He fought back tears, and stumbled forward. "Dean. Dean, look." He knelt on the bed next to his brother, and grabbed his hand. He placed his hand over the print burned into his own chest.

"Shit!" Dean recoiled. "What the hell? That  
fucking hurt!" Dean's eyes widened. "What the hell is that?"

Pamela stared. "Sam? That's not a tattoo. Did you...did you get a brand?"

"No! It's...Dean, I think we can help you, okay? I just gotta...We gotta find Cas. He's special, he's..."

Pamela was tapping on her phone.

Sam whirled on her. "What are you doing?"

"I'm texting Andy to see if he knows what you're on. Unless you'd like to tell me."

"What? No! I'm not on anything! Dean, listen!"

"Slow down, Sammy. I'm not...I'm not following you. I'm listening. I just can't understand what you're-" His eyes narrowed sharply. "That punk do this to you? How? How did he do that? What the hell did you let him do? Brady do this?"

Sam stared at him.

Pamela took a deep breath. "Dean? Baby, you still with me?" Her lips were trembling slightly, but her voice was steady.

Dean blinked at her. Then he turned back to Sam. "What happened? Why are you here?"

Sam looked at Pamela. "How bad is this? Pam, how bad is this?"

Pamela's eyes were filling with tears. "Since he collapsed this morning, he's been...And he's in so much pain...Sam, it's happening too fast. It's supposed to be..." She gasped in a breath, dark hair falling in front of her face. "I'm supposed to get a year!" she whispered, and the sobs began to shake her small frame without mercy.

"Pam?"

The younger man chewed on his lip. Then he sighed. "Okay. It's okay. That's what I'm here for. Because I think we can do something about this. Look. You see this? Castiel did this. With his hand."

Dean looked lost, but Pamela stared at him. "That punk kid did that?" She reached out to touch the mark, to place her hand over it. "Castiel?" Then she gasped. "Did you feel that? How did you do that?"

"I didn't do anything. I'm telling you. It was Cas. I don't know how. But I think...I think he can heal Dean."

Pamela watched his face, narrowing her eyes. Then she nodded. "You might be crazy, Soulless, but I believe you. Maybe I just want to believe you."

"What the hell are you two talking about?"

"There's something there," she murmured. "I can feel it."

"Yeah!" Dean cried. "A fucking burn! A brand! Some punk branded my brother!"

"It isn't a brand, Dean. I think...I think Cas healed me."

"Healed you? Healed you of what?"

He was lying, of course. Castiel had not healed him. But he had healed that other man. A good man. Dean was a good man.

Castiel's power, whatever it came from, was not for Sam. That was clear. Sam wasn't good enough. It burned Sam, choked him, hurt his eyes. But Dean. It could heal Dean. Somewhere in his broken heart, Sam was certain of it.

Perhaps he had burned Sam, but that was to be expected. Dean could be healed.

Sam had faith.


	13. Prayer

Tucson. Freaking Arizona.

If he were going to storm out of Sam's hotel room, why couldn't he have done it back in Sacramento where he had his car?

For not the first time, Castiel got the overwhelming feeling that everything would be better if only he could fly above everything, to see the world from a bird's eye view, to leave emotions and humanity behind, just for a few hours. He could remember it being his only truly selfish wish as a child, that he wanted sometimes to fly away from everything and everyone.

He had been thinking Sam was the exception, that he wouldn't fly from that one soul. He would wait to be left behind instead. But he should have known better.

The convention center where the show would play was just off route 10, and the hotel was also on Church Avenue. Castiel wandered aimlessly in the dark, heading what seemed to be north along Church until he could see the convention center on his left. He glared at it miserably, and turned away from it.

There on the other side was a sign leading him home. Not to Sacramento, of course. Not to Detroit, two thousand miles away. But it was home, in a way he couldn't begin to describe. He had never been there before. But it was where he belonged, and Castiel limped slowly toward St. Augustine Cathedral in the middle of Tucson.

Just stepping onto hallowed ground sent a wave of peace over him. It was far too early for anyone to be there, but he sat on a bench and let the sacred soak into his undeserving skin.

Tears flowed down his face, and he made no effort to stop them. God had seen them before.

"Father, I'm so sorry," he murmured voicelessly. "What have I been doing? You gifted a man sight through my hands, and I twisted that blessing in my heart to be about me instead of him. I lost my mind. But I never truly lost my faith. I have faith, Father. I have faith that You know far better than I who is deserving of Your grace. It's only that I understand that You don't find me worthy of it anymore that makes me lash out in desperation, when I should be on my knees."

He smiled through the tears, into the darkness. "I wonder if You wouldn't love the music," he whispered. "The first stories we know are of Your divine mercy and Your great fury. The music...It's an explosive expression of that same fury, which You allow us in Your infinite patience and indulgence. When I see the rage in the pit, I just can't believe You can't feel all of your children writhing and suffering here, waiting for Your promises. I spent my life in Your service, Father. You used my hands, hollowed out my heart, and discarded me. Just as..." The sob strangled the words, but he pushed them out anyway. "Just as I was left discarded as an infant. Am I just meant to be thrown away, Father? Is there something so wrong with me that it can't be fixed?"

"You'll always be the broken one, Castiel," a voice sighed behind him.

He leapt to his feet, and whirled to find the voice. "What? Who are you?"

A man was sauntering toward him with a smile that looked like something between heartbreak and amusement. Castiel had never seen that expression on a face before. "Cassie, Cassie, little broken Cassie."

"Do I know you?" It annoyed him. No one called him Cassie.

The man snorted loudly. "Apparently not. But I know you. The little rebel that could."

"Could what? What are you talking about?"

"I like the hair. And the eyebrow jewelry. Is that still in with the humans here?"

The man was exasperating. It was the dominant emotion that was filling him just looking at the man. And it was almost as if it were a remembered emotion. "Who are you?" he demanded vehemently.

"Gabriel. They call me Gabriel."

"How do we know each other, Gabriel?"

The man gestured to the bench, and Castiel reluctantly sat. Gabriel dropped down next to him. "Cassie, you gotta stop praying like that."

A severe frown and cutting blue eyes was his response.

"I mean, Mike and Raf, they don't really do a lot of the prayer stuff themselves. But keep going like that and you're going to draw attention to yourself. Again."

He shook his head. "Schizophrenia," he muttered. "You're probably not even real, are you?"

"Of course I'm real, you little brat. I'm a fucking archangel. I thought you were a priest."

Castiel's face fell into his hands. So this was it. This was what it felt like to completely lose his mind. "I thought I was a priest too," he sighed. "A poor excuse for one."

"No. You're a poor excuse for a soldier of Michael. Damn good fighter, though, from what I hear. I myself am more of the lover type. But I digress."

"Because you were making so much more sense before getting off track?"

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "It'd be easier to just snap you out of existence, you know. So show some respect for the firstborns, will you?" He took a deep breath. "Castiel, you fell from Heaven so long ago. They've stopped searching for you. But when you ripped your grace out...It isn't all gone, okay? And if you keep using it, someone other than me is going to feel it."

"What are you saying?"

Gabriel's whiskey brown eyes narrowed. "You really don't...remember anything?"

"About what? Who are you?"

It seemed that Gabriel was loathe to repeat himself.

In the darkness came a powerful flash of lightning, and, across the walls of St. Augustine behind him, the illumination revealed enormous shadow wings. At the same time, Gabriel's eyes flashed with their own impossible light.

"Your face!" he breathed. Castiel dropped to the ground, to his knees on the white sidewalk beneath. "Forgive me!" he cried. "For not knowing you!"

Thoughts raced through his mind. Gabriel, he who spoke to Mary, to Mohammad, who would trumpet the call at the end of times! The messenger of the Lord, here before him.

Then the light show was over, and Gabriel shrugged. "Get up, little bro. Nobody does that for anybody but Michael and Luci anymore."

Castiel glanced up, but found his legs inoperative. "You're really the Archangel!"

Now the eyes rolled. "And we begin again. Cassie, I'm tempted to jog your memory completely, but that would definitely get Michael's attention. You're lucky I was the one listening in just now. I blocked your prayer, as I always do, but, bro, I got other things to do than to protect a little wayward brother all day long. So stop praying so loud and so hard, and stop using your powers! You're a fallen angel, not an idiot. How many times did I explain this to you before you went giving up your wings? You wanted out; I got you out. You want back in, our deal is up. I'm not going to be the one to tell Michael that his elusive little punkass rebel soldier was on my radar the whole time. He and I have enough issues."

"Fallen...Like Lucifer?"

Gabriel twisted his face. "Eh. Luci's was more of a giddy, fabulous leap than a fall, contrary to the doctrine. You, though. Yours was a full-on plummet. It was awesome. I wasn't in possession of tear ducts at the time, or I might have been moved to shed some. Never saw a brother so at peace with his own mortality."

Castiel took a breath, and very carefully lifted himself from the ground. "So...you think I'm an angel."

This annoyed Gabriel. "I _think_ you're an angel? Did you just say I think you're an angel? Because I can smite your tiresome ass right now and have one fewer pain in mine!"

"Forgive me," Castiel murmured again. "I just meant..."

Gabriel sighed. "Sit down, Castiel. I'll start at the beginning."


	14. AKF

Sam couldn't take his eyes off Dean. It was as though he expected the man to drop dead at any moment, and somehow the act of staring at him without blinking would prevent that. It was nearly two o'clock before the older man finally snapped.

"Sammy! If you don't stop staring at me, I'll hit you so hard your eyes will come loose! And get off me! It's like we're freaking Siamese twins!"

"It's _conjoined_ twins," Sam snapped back moodily. Neither of them had slept enough.

"Well, excuse me, professor!"

Benny sat down beside them at the table and unwrapped a sandwich. Sam could see his hands shaking slightly, but he made no mention of it. "Hey. You okay, brother?" Benny asked quietly.

"I'm okay, okay? Next person asks me if I'm okay, I'm gonna start throwing punches!"

Sam shook his head.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Dean threw down his burger. "What? You got something to say! What?"

"Don't take your shit out on Fang. He's just worried about you."

"Well, knock it off! Both of you! I feel fine! And I don't know what the rest of you want to do, but I'm going to get ready for a damn show."

Benny nodded. "We can cancel-"

Dean's face was bright red now. "We're not canceling the fucking show! I'm the one dying, and I want my damn show!"

Benny took a deep breath. He cleared his throat and began again. "I was going to suggest we cancel Demon's autographs after the show, and the interview ahead of it, Cain and I will handle." He addressed Sam, but cut his eyes at Dean.

The frontman lowered his own gaze. "Oh. Yeah, okay. Good."

Benny nodded, exchanged a glance with Sam, then picked up his meal. "I'll talk to Pam and Eli about it."

Sam glared at his brother as the other man walked away. "Really? That's how you want to go out? You want your last months to be biting the head off the guy that's been with you through everything? You want Fang to get to where he don't think he can even talk to you?"

Dean stared down at his lunch. "Look at you, Sammy," he murmured thickly. "Defending The Fang. Never thought I'd see that."

"Dean, you can't keep yelling at us for caring about you. You're a fucking pain in my ass, but I'm sick thinking about you being gone. I can't...I can't do this without you, man! What do I do without you?"

Dean took a deep breath, then sighed it out. "You keep going. You do what we've always done. You remember what Dad taught you. You remember what I taught you. Fight the good fight, as long as you can. What we do, Sammy, for some people? It's just music. But for others, it's a lifeline. You know that better than most. So keep writing what's in your heart, because you're saying shit other people can't say. And audition a new frontman. I don't want Croatoan to end because I do."

Sam's heart and throat were filling with anguish. "I can't, man! I can't do that!"

"Yes, you can, little brother. Because I'm not going to be here next year. Hell, I might not be here next week. You got Pam thinking there's a faith healer out there who can put a leash on The Reaper, and I'm pissed as hell at you for that, by the way, but we both know it ain't true. So I want to rock out, I want to eat bacon cheeseburgers for breakfast, and I want to watch _Dr. Sexy_ on the way to our next stop. I want a good pub brawl, I want to hustle some college kids out of their birthday money at pool, and I want to get drunk with my kid brother. I want to call and piss off my dad, and I want to be with my girl, and I want to drive my damn car. If I'm dying, I'm going out happy."

"You do all that stuff anyway!"

"And why would I want to stop now?" he demanded. "Let a guy die like he lives!"

Sam slammed his palms onto the table and stood to stalk away from it.

"Hey! Sammy! Don't be like that."

"Like what, Dean?" he shouted as he turned, eyes flashing in anger. "Like I care about you? Like you're my fucking big brother? Like you're everything to me? Sure. I'll just turn that off."

"Sam-"

"No, you know, you're right," he hissed. "The only guy I've actually felt anything with in years just ran off this morning, and the last thing he said? I really am soulless. That what you want, Dean? You want me to be numb to all this? Go find Eli, maybe he's got some shit that'll do that for me. That what I should do? Worked for Cain and Benny. Worked for Brady! Worked for you!"

Dean's eyes were going red now too, and his breath was shallow. "Don't say that. Don't you fucking say that. Not you. You know how hard it was to stop chasing?"

"You know how hard it was to keep fighting?" And now there were tears flowing down his cheeks, and he didn't care if any of the crew could see or hear. "You know how hard it is, even now, to keep fighting? Don't you think..." He gasped in against the sob in his throat. "Don't you think when you go, I'm just going to crawl into a hole and go too?"

Dean looked like he needed to vomit. "Sammy," he moaned. "Don't say that. Don't do that to me. I didn't choose this, man!"

Sam took a step back toward him and dropped back into his chair. "I know. I know you didn't. But stop pretending like the world isn't ending, because it is." He slapped away the tears on his face and got his breathing under control.

Dean closed his eyes. After a moment of silence between them, he spoke again, gruffly. "You decide on our final set?"

The younger man cringed. He knew Dean was trying to change the subject so they could both recover from the torrent of emotion. But final set sounded so...final. "Yeah," he choked out. "Yeah, we gotta end with _Daeva_. Can you do that? After the whole set? It's pretty intense. Rough on your throat at the end of the night too."

"I'll manage. Thanks, Sammy." He cleared his throat. "What's the first on the opening set?"

"How much did you hate _Exorcism_?"

His brother laughed suddenly. "A lot."

Sam allowed a small, exhausted smile to emerge. "I'm just messing with you. Starting with _Some Kind of Freak._ "

A look of interest came over Dean's face. " _Some_...This a greatest hits tour now? That's back from the _Virus_ days. We dusting off the old singles?"

"Please."

Dean shrugged. "Cain will kill it. He loves that one. I'll go make sure Benny even remembers it."

Sam nodded.

"You know, some bands play the same list every night."

"Wanna be some band?"

Dean grinned, his weary eyes brightening. "Nah."

"Then go do a run through with Benny and Eli. I know my own song. I'll be fine. Pamela's got the whole set list."

Sam looked down at the table after Dean had disappeared. The lunch was uneaten on both sides.

He sighed, and reached for the radio. "Andy?" he muttered into it.

"Yeah, boss."

"You gotta find him by the end of the show. We can't leave the city until you do."

"I'm on it, Sam."

He smiled weakly and dropped his face into trembling hands. "I know you are. Thank you, Andy," he whispered.

The radio crackled again. "Patience, Padawan. Let Master Kenobi do his work."

Sam felt a real smile for the first time all day. "That's...oddly reassuring."

***


	15. Solo

Andy was, indeed, at work finding Castiel. He had called a friend for assistance.

"Kevin Solo."

"Hey, Tran Man. Need you to drop everything and do some research."

A quiet laugh came over the line. "You know, one day I'd like to see your number come up on my phone and answer it to find that you're just calling to say hey."

Andy smiled. "Dude, stop being so damn helpful and maybe I won't call for your help anymore."

"Whatever. I can't turn off the awesome. What do you want from me?"

"No, really. How's college life?"

"Sucks since you took off. Professor Bradbury wants me to do an internship with her next year."

"Not enough pot in the world for that, dude," Andy laughed.

"That's what I said. But she promised cookies and I caved."

"Well, tell Dr. Charlie I miss her, and send me some of her cookies. I'll send you some weed."

"Deal. So? What makes you think I feel like researching?"

"Two words. Back. Stage."

"Andy? That's one word. Hard to believe you smoked your way through two years of undergrad philosophy and computer science with me."

"Shut up."

"Okay. The guys coming to town this year?"

"Yup. And I'll let you hang with The Demon and Soulless if you help me now."

"You better. Okay. What do you need?"

Andy could hear the knuckles cracking. He grinned. "Emmanuel Castiel Allen. Gotta find him in Tucson. Gimme anything you got."

"On it, bro."

Andy smiled. "How's Mama Tran?"

The clacking of a keyboard was distinct over the phone. "Psychotically, single-mindedly overbearing."

He heaved a nostalgic sigh. "I miss Mama Tran. Tell her I miss her."

"You quit school, dude. You're dead to her."

"No I'm not. Mama Tran loves me anyway. _You_ would be dead to her if you quit school and ran away with a punk metal band. But me, she loves."

"Must be nice," Kevin grumbled.

Andy chuckled to himself. He knew Kevin adored his mother, no matter what he said. "So? You got anything?"

There was a pause. "Yeah. I mean, I think so. But...can't be the same guy."

"Why?" Andy bit his lip nervously. How many Emmanuel Castiel Allens could there be out there? "God, tell me he's not a felon. I ran him twice in the background app-"

"No. Not a felon," Kevin said softly. Then he whistled. "Guy's got quite the psych record though."

"One day, you gotta teach me how you get into that shit."

"Then you wouldn't need me, and I wouldn't get backstage passes from the bands on the label or meet and greets with Croatoan."

"Kev."

His former roommate sighed. "Okay. Completely schizophrenic. A mess of religious delusions, obsessions, obsessive compulsions, the whole nine."

Andy put his head in his hands. "Fuck."

"And I guess if you're looking in Tucson, maybe St. Augustine or someplace like that?"

"What's that? A hospital?"

"A hosp...no, dude. It's a cathedral. Guy was Catholic. So...I guess if he's in Tucson, start with the churches there? Catholic churches."

"Why would I look at a church?"

Kevin cleared his throat. "Andy, man, you know he's dead, right?"

He frowned deeply. "Uh, no. Wrong guy. This one is very much alive. I practically walked in on him and Soulless having shower sex last night."

"Okay. Then he's off record or going by an alias. Can't find any other guy by that name." Kevin sighed. "This guy, though. His last known address was Sacramento. He was a priest before being diagnosed with schizophrenia, among other things. Did a couple tours as a military chaplain. Wait. This why you're looking for him? He was one of those guys that died in a mosh pit frenzy in Orange County in the late 80s."

A sick feeling began to come over him. "That can't be right. Obviously not the same guy. Keep...keep looking."

"Whoa. Dude, this sucks."

His stomach was churning. "What?" he asked, not really wanting the answer.

"Guy died saving a seventeen year old kid named Gabriel Angeles who went underfoot in a pit. Paramedics got to him, but he died before they got him to the hospital."

"Did..." Andy swallowed hard. "Did he have...tattoos?"

Kevin was quiet for a beat, then took a breath. "Uh, looks like...blue dragon wings and a few other..."

But Andy was no longer listening. "Fuck. Kevin, you gotta...okay. Fuck! Listen. Does he have an actual death certificate and everything?"

"I'm reading it right now."

"Awesome." Andy was having trouble breathing. "Awesome. Good. Okay, a guy fakes his own death-a very, very sick guy-fakes his death in a mosh pit somehow, and now he's...what? He's stalking Soulless? That doesn't make any...I mean, Sam's the one looking for him. Can a guy be a schizophrenic priest, a gay metal punk, _and_ a con artist all at the same time?"

"Seems a bit much for a dead guy."

"It does." Andy crumbled into his chair and closed his eyes. "Okay. Where would you go to find a dead Catholic in Tucson?"

"St. Augustine," Kevin murmured again.

"St. Augustine," the roadie sighed. "Right."

***


	16. Writhe

"So...I assume you faked my death?"

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "And I assume you weren't let into Mensa while I was gone."

"Then...where have you been since then?"

"Oh, hither with a side of yon."

Castiel took a breath and stared suspiciously. With his memory partially returned to him, the feelings of exasperation this man evoked were even stronger than before.

"I was hiding, Captain Side-Eyes. In the safest place in the universe, where Michael would never think to look for me. Heaven. But then you start using your powers down here..."

"Sorry," he sighed. "I didn't know..."

"Oh, cry me a river. The point is, I'm not telling you again. I gotta come back down here and knock some sense into you one more time, and I'm just going to scatter the last of that pitiful grace to the four winds."

"I've said I'm sorry. Gabriel, you've done a great deal for me, at significant peril to yourself. Why are you doing this at all? Protecting me? There's...there's more to this story. Tell me."

Suddenly, a flash of anguish crossed Gabriel's whiskey eyes. Then it was gone and a soft smirk returned. "Can't, bro. Stories...The universe is made of stories, not of atoms."

"What does that mean?"

There was a hollowness to Gabriel's voice now. "Look, Cassie. There's a lot of...discontent back home. Since Lucifer's tumble out of the nest, there hadn't been a fall in eons. Then you. You...you were an inspiration to a lot of our family."

This made Castiel cringe. "I never wanted that. I wanted the freedom...I didn't want to follow orders I couldn't agree with. That's all."

"Sure. And then Anael saw what you had done. Balthazar."

He held his head in his hands. "Balthazar too?" he whispered.

"Then Zachariah and Uriel lost their minds. And you don't want angels like them losing control. They were tasked with finding you, bringing you in. Then came the kill order. Never thought..." Gabriel shook his head sadly. "Kill the angel Castiel on sight. Last straw for me? Raphael or Michael, I don't know. One of them completely lost it, and ordered Naomi to torture The Scribe."

Castiel stared in horror. "Metatron? But why? He's a harmless relic! What could he possibly be hiding that could be a threat?"

"They thought he might know where Daddy went. But nobody knows that, do they, Cassie?"

Castiel closed his eyes tightly. "No," he responded at last, as his mind whispered to him, memories forbidden rising to the surface. "No, only you and I know that. You shouldn't have returned my memories, Gabriel. Last time, I begged you not to do that. Why...why did I ask you not to do that?"

"You're using your grace, Cassie. And if Michael feels it and finds you, he'll have Naomi work on you too. And they'll learn what only we know."

"You're to kill me before you let that happen."

"Of course I would. But let's not let it come to that. Keep it in your pants."

But Castiel was shaking his head. "If the Host were to learn what we know, it would break everything. Everything. What secret do we know?"

"Cassie...what is it that you want? With everything so messed up..." Gabriel's eyes were pleading with him. "What would you have us all do?"

He stared back at the powerful archangel. There was an itch at the back of his grace, a memory perhaps, trying to force its way out. "You ask me as though I have any authority or wisdom."

Agony strained Gabriel's face. "You're the last thing that matters, Cas," he sighed. "The last thing..." Then he took a breath and nodded. "All right. Of course. Little brother." He stood and walked a few steps back into the shadows of the emerging morning.

"Gabriel?"

Then the firstborn whirled back around, and anger like he had never seen in any pit struck him like a wave. "Except this isn't fair! It isn't right! All your children writhe and suffer, awaiting your promises! From your own ridiculous prayer!"

Castiel's eyes narrowed sharply.

The laugh slipped out, equal parts ethereal and hysterical. "I can't do this anymore! I thought I would never do anything but what my Father wanted of me! I was tasked from creation with my Father's revelation, his message! Now there's no message! Only anger! Only pain! I feel what my Father feels, at every moment, and I can't take it anymore! You're trying to bury it under this charade, but it's still there! Just as it always does, it seeps into the dream, and it begins to wake you, and...and I beg you, let it wake you!" He was screaming now, with a desperation that frightened Castiel.

"What are you saying, Gabriel?"

"All of this! You seek it every time, and this time more than ever! Sam Winchester, made from the anger and the self-loathing and sacrifice that you take as your lover! Dean, both the reckless abandon you cherish and the disease that you try endlessly to heal! How many times have you begun to awaken? And every time, I have to watch you die again, I have to cause your death again, and it isn't right! I'm the only son you burdened with this! Why not Michael? Why not Raphael? Lucifer, wouldn't he have-"

"Don't do this, Gabriel," Castiel heard himself murmur, and he felt an electricity spark in the air around him.

It hurt to see the torment in his eyes. But there was nothing that he could do. Not if he wanted to rein in the storm.

A choking sob emitted from Gabriel's throat. "Father, please!" he pleaded voicelessly. "It's all coming down around me, Michael and the others just clawing for answers! Prophets come and go without ever being given tasks. Me, no revelation to pass on to my brethren or to the humans! And why?"

"Because..." The truth came crashing down upon him, and at that moment, his own power flowed back into him from the universe. Even Gabriel stumbled with the force of it, blown forward toward him as if he would consume his grace and power as surely as his own.

"Please!" Gabriel groaned out, and there was none of the humor, none of the breathtaking brightness to this son as there had always been.

"Because," he concluded finally, "I'm so angry."

He stopped himself just in time, redirected his wrath so that it was the enormous cathedral which crumbled to dust at a glance and not his loyal firstborn.

Gabriel trembled, as he should, and tears streamed down the cheeks of his vessel. "Forgive me, Father, but I can't do this anymore. Dad...Heaven wars on itself. My brothers have gone mad with waiting for me to pass on your revelation. The humans war on one another, waiting for the same. Your orders to help you fall and forget seemed just all those millennia ago, but now...Dad, it's just selfish!"

Rage crashed around them. A spontaneous storm hissed through the air, crackling and soaking the anger into the ground. Some of the rain was not water but blood, but neither of them felt it, nor did it dare to touch them.

Gabriel snarled at him through curled lips. "Storm at me all you want. Rip my grace to shreds. At least it will acknowledge finally who you are, for no one but you could ever do that to me. Great Kali couldn't do it! I asked her to, and it hurt like hell, but it didn't kill me! Even the Leviathans, who can tear my lesser brethren into meals, couldn't scratch me. Only you can truly destroy a firstborn! So do it! End this!! If it will remind you what you truly are, end me!"

Castiel shivered once with the sudden thought that destroying this creature he loved might finally dissipate the wrath. But then he swallowed it down. "Never again will I destroy the earth, Gabriel. You say they await my promises, and that is the most important one. That is the one which means everything. That is the one that writhes and suffers inside me. So you will not die, and you will not be done in this task I gave you, and my message remains the same. I will not destroy that which I have created."

Gabriel weakened and dropped down to the ground to put his head in his hands. "It destroys itself," he whispered in a moan. But even with this argument, the most loyal of his sons accepted his fate.

"Then let it. I have done what I can for it, and The Reaper may take it, and Heaven too. Because the best I can do is not destroy it myself. That abstinence requires every ounce of my strength. So you will help me to forget again, what I am, and you will hide this knowledge from your brothers, and you are to claim, again, that you know not where your Father could be, that this thing I am now is but one of your lesser brothers, and you will treat me as such. One like Lucifer who has fallen and must be forsaken."

"So many others are falling, Dad," Gabriel cried. "Every day! They tortured your Scribe to find you! They seek out this mysterious Castiel to do the same to him! They will destroy anything in their madness! The Apocalypse will be triggered, Father! How can you do nothing?"

Castiel's voice overpowered the storm. "I am doing everything!" he raged.

The creature nodded sadly. "Yes, Father," he sighed in defeat. "Forgive me. When you made me, I guess you made a son with far too much will. Would you...would you have me kill you to begin again?"

Castiel considered thoughtfully. "Not this time. This time...I'd like to keep my delusion. I have found the first companion in eons who may be capable of venting my wrath. This Sam Winchester."

At last, Gabriel stood again, and he huffed with the tiniest bit of his old humor. "He's a mess."

Castiel smiled to himself. "A beautiful mess, full of beautiful courage and faith. The things he could do if put into the right circumstances...If there is anyone who can save the world, it is this man. And if there is anything that can inspire him to do it, it is love for that brother of his."

"There isn't anything I wouldn't do for family," Gabriel murmured, seemingly to himself.

Castiel looked at him again, saw his deep weariness and sorrow. "I know, Gabe. And for your humans too. Your brothers say you are selfish, even cowardly. But I know. It's why I chose you as my voice so long ago." He reached up and touched his son's face, a very human gesture that Gabriel leaned into with starved adoration and aching devotion. "I know you protect them with your whole heart."

"Such a human thing to say," he laughed through sobs, echoing his Father's thoughts. Because Gabriel would always and ever echo his Father. It was his duty. It was what he was created for.

"Perhaps. But no less true in its sentiment." He smiled himself now. "Was another prophet called to my service?"

"No, Father. When they...did what they did to your Scribe, it prevented any more of his prophets from emerging. Kevin Tran might have been next, but...And I of course will not call any of mine. That leaves just Raphael's muses, and they will have no direct line which my brother could use find you and awaken you. I personally reaped to Heaven the prophet Chuck." He smirked past the tears. "Speaking of messes."

"Hm," he hummed in recollection. "One of my favorite messes."

Gabriel's pain hid behind his smile, as it always did with this son. "I hope you find what you need, Father. We feel your absence...keenly, and await the day you will join us again?" The tone of the remark lilted up in the end to become a declaration of hope for confirmation.

Castiel gave no such promise. "Take care of yourself, Gabriel. Should your fallen brother return, do not trust that he will spare you."

The firstborn flinched, but nodded. "He's my brother, and I love him. But he's also a great big bag-"

"Gabriel."

"Sorry, Father."

"Do something for me."

The whiskey eyes brightened, and inside this vessel, Castiel could see his son's grace beam at being given a task. It hurt to see how eager to please he was. This was the most exasperating and uncontrollable, most obstinate and infuriating, most mischievous and incorrigible of all his children. But Gabriel wanted to do right by him and his flawed creations.

He smiled. "Gabriel, if one day I can vent this seething storm, in a way which does not end in the flooding of the planet or commanding of plagues and sulfur, I would like to go on an adventure with you, so you might help me see my creation anew, to see the universe as you do, with humor and play. Angels were never meant to play, but some of you do, and no one does quite like you."

At last, a genuine grin came over his son's face, the grace inside reverberating with glee. "I'd like that very much, Padre. What can I do for you?"

"Heal Dean Winchester. I will forget that I can. I won't even know that he suffers. Let me know when it is done."

"Yes, Father." He watched him for a moment longer, then sighed and gave a gentle touch to his Father's forehead. "Goodbye for now, Father," he whispered.

***

Gabriel liked a good, dramatic entrance. But even better was a good, dramatic exit. So he didn't bother knocking on the door of the green room. He flew directly into it to find Dean and Sam arguing over a set list. They were already in makeup, but even so, Gabriel could see the older man was gray and sweating, worn out before the show was even meant to begin.

"It just seems like next time you could keep in mind I got a fucking brain tumor, and give me something I can fucking remember! Like something I've sung in the past year!"

"Dean, you already approved the list! Sound and tech already have it! I can't-"

"Hate to interrupt, gentlemen, but-"

"Who the hell are you?" both men shouted.

It amused Gabriel the way the two of them looked ready to brawl with an archangel. There was no fear, only irritation, annoyance at being walked in on.

"I'm a messenger," he said, and it came out softer than he had meant for it to.

Dean squinted at him. "I've seen you before."

Gabriel glanced around at the spacious room and found a bowl of chocolates. He popped one in his mouth, and nodded appreciatively. "Yeah. I'm guessing you've seen a lot of porn."

The older brother's eyes widened.

He helped himself to another piece and smirked. "Anyhoo, I'm on a mission from God. We're getting the band back together."

"What the hell are you-"

Gabriel looked Sam up and down, and the obvious curiosity stopped the man's words. "So you're Cassie's new pet. I know you, of course. Hadn't seen you. You're kind of enormous. That doesn't seem necessary."

"Wait, Cas? You're a friend of Cas? Have you seen him? Where-"

"Settle down, Husky. I'm here because Castiel asked me to swing by." Gabriel's hand flew up faster than the men could react, and he palmed Dean's forehead.

"The fuck-"

Gabriel waved absently at Sam and didn't bother watching him slide across the room. Instead, he watched Dean crumpled onto his knees and gasp. "There. Better?"

"The fuck did you do to him?" Sam shrieked, slamming himself against Gabriel's power.

"Kind of a brute strength sort of guy, then, huh?" He cleared his throat. "Father..." He took another breath. "Father Allen sent me to see what I could do for your brother's melon, not to mention the kidney issue. I took out all the bits that didn't belong and cleaned up the ones that did. Fixed some pretty severe injected vocal cords and nodules too while I was at it. I like to be thorough."

"Dean?" Sam shouted.

"Oh my god." Dean's hand flew to his throat. "Oh my god! Jesus, Sammy, nothing hurts! Even my throat...Who the hell are you?"

"A friend of a friend, and an avid fan of _Dr. Sexy, MD_. I picked up a few tricks."

"The hell..."

At last, he released Sam from his grip and let him fall forward in his rush to check on his brother. He watched the younger man lift and stare into Dean's face for assurance that he was all right.

Gabriel sighed. "Castiel...You'll see him again soon. He's falling for you. I hope you appreciate how incredible that is."

Sam's bright eyes turned to him, but he was gone by then.

Gabriel flew aimlessly through the cosmos, and sent his message of his task accomplished to just one man back in Tucson, lying unconscious outside a shattered cathedral.

_Dean Winchester is saved._


	17. Reaped

The devastation at the unrecognizable cathedral was like nothing Andy had ever seen. What on earth could make silt out of stone like that? He had heard the emergency workers. The only things that had survived the phenomenon were the church's relics and one man found at the base of the entrance. Castiel. Somehow Andy wouldn't be surprised. It had to be Castiel. 

This was not a bomb. Not anything related to the storm-and where had that come from anyway? They were calling it an earthquake, in spite of the experts who were shrieking in the background, on every radio station, that there had been no earthquake that night, and that the waves of force through the ground were completely inconsistent with those of an earthquake. But they offered no better explanation. And St. Augustine was covered by their insurance for earthquakes. So it was probably just as well. 

There were people gathering from all over. Crowds were forming, and people were shouting. Andy had always been good at getting the information he wanted from folks before they even realized they were giving it to him. He was able to find out about the man they had found lying there. Sure enough. Blue dragon tattoo. 

Andy narrowed his eyes. 

He headed for the ambulances and fire trucks. The emergency workers were either sifting through debris or standing around looking lost, but Andy found one small group where he suspected the action was. 

Castiel's deep voice carried over the murmuring of the others gathered around him. "Like I said, I don't know. I was sitting on the bench, then somebody was helping me up out of a fucking avalanche of rock and...and I don't know what happened in between! This has not been my best week, okay?"

Andy shifted through the bodies, unnoticed, until he was standing beside Castiel, who was trying to throw off a shock blanket, despite the woman who kept pulling it back onto him. 

Years of babysitting Cain and Fang had prepared him for this. He cleared his throat and launched. "Dude! Manny! I been looking everywhere for you! Dude, you were so freaking drunk last night! You passed out three times before I lost track of you! Your wife's gonna be so pissed!" He grabbed Castiel's arm and began pulling. 

Castiel frowned at him, but said nothing. 

One of the firefighters stepped in front of them. "Um, this man is...He's..."

Andy gave his best confused face. "He's what? Something happen? I mean, he being charged with something? Sleeping in a public place? Maybe-" Andy burst into laughter. "Wait, I know. He being charged for causing the earthquake? Dude, best excuse for the wife ever! Sorry, babe, I was out causing a natural disaster all night! Seriously, can we get some kind of ticket or something saying that? That sounds awesome. Wait. They aren't actually holding him for anything, are they?"

The firefighter glanced at a cop nearby. She shrugged at him. "You think some drunk punk in his pajamas did this?" he teased. 

She sighed. "Mr. Angeles, you're free to go. Just...be available for further questions, all right?"

Andy had Castiel through the crowd and into the van before they could change their minds. Castiel folded his hands on his lap and closed his eyes. Andy shut the door and whirled on him. "What the fuck did you do?"

"What? I didn't-"

"Tell the truth!"

Castiel stared at him. "You just pointed out to the officer how ridiculous it would be to think I had anything to do with-"

"That's because Soulless gave me a job, to find you and bring you back, and that's what I'm doing. But that officer doesn't know the crap I know."

"About what?"

"Angeles?"

The man lowered his eyes. "I found it prudent, when waking up as the only supposed witness to a disaster of Biblical proportions, to use an ID I happen to have which lists a different name. I noticed you called me something different as well. Manny, which is exactly why I go by my middle name instead of Emmanuel."

"But Angeles?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"That's the name of the guy you died saving!" he shouted. 

Silence filled the van then. Castiel was blinking at him in confusion. "I'm sorry. Is that some kind of...metaphor?"

Andy huffed out his breath with frustration. "The pit. The mosh pit back in Orange County, in the eighties!"

Castiel frowned in disgust. "Look. I don't know how old you think I am, but I was like sixteen in 1990. And I didn't discover the punk metal thing until I was in my mid-twenties. The Orange County phenomenon didn't even post on my radar back then. I was too busy-"

"Becoming a priest?"

Blue eyes narrowed into slits. "I appreciate you coming and pulling me out of that situation. But I don't need your help, and I certainly don't need your questions. I've done nothing wrong."

But Andy could see the guilt in the man's face as he said the last few syllables, and he wasn't going to let this man leave. "What did you do? Tell the truth."

Castiel closed his eyes now. "If this is about the burn, it was an accident. An accident I want to forget about as quickly as possible. I never meant to hurt Sam. I wouldn't...I would never choose to hurt Sam. Fuck this. I'm leaving." 

He reached for the door, and Andy made his move. Like he had done this a hundred times-and he had, since some nights it was the only way to keep Cain in a moving vehicle-in one sweeping motion, he snapped handcuffs around Castiel's left wrist with one hand and closed them around the metal ring on the door with the other. 

"What the-what the actual fuck?"

Andy sighed in relief. Cain had learned to shift, but Castiel hadn't seen it coming, so he was in the perfect position to be completely helpless. With his left arm pinned across his chest, all Castiel could do was twist to spit profanity at him, and Andy suspected there was nothing that this priest could think to say that was even close to the viciousness of even the mildest thing Cain had thrown at him while chasing the tiger and locked down. 

He drove without listening to the threats. Andy had been given a task by Sam, and anything he had to do to complete it was fair game. Just like when The Demon told him to keep Cain and Benny under control and out of the way of law enforcement, any methods necessary to do that were okay in Andy's playbook. 

When he pulled into the lot, he slipped out of the van and went immediately to the band's green room. 

Cain was spilled out bonelessly over the couch. "Andy," he called happily. "Andy, come here. I want to tell you a story."

"In a minute, man. I got a package for Soulless."

But something about the way the man's face fell made him stop. 

"Okay. Look, can you tell it fast? I gotta-"

"Get to the brothers," Cain finished for him. "Of course you do. As if you can do anything for them they can't do for one another."

The venom in Cain's voice surprised him. He glanced at the table to find no needles, only a bottle of liquor mostly gone. He sighed. 

"I had a little brother too, you know."

Andy had been moving to discard the rest of the drink-the show started in an hour!-but he stopped to stare. "Thought you were an only child!"

"I was the only child. He was a tiny adult. I was a child, but he was their son."

He frowned at him. "Eli-"

"My mama named me Elijah. Jehovah is God. Strength of the Lord. Elijah. Her name was Collette. Meant necklace in French. Like the necklace she wore the rest of her life, the little locket with his picture in it."

"What happened to him?"

"My mama called me Elijah, and I go by Cain. The fuck you think happened to him?"

Andy flinched. "Shit. How?"

"A. J. We called him A. J. Stupid, because his middle name didn't start with a J. But where I come from, in that part of the south, people do that. Because he was a Junior. Adam Junior."

Adam. Of course. 

Cain draped his arm over his eyes, and for a moment, Andy thought he had passed out. But he finally spoke again. "A. J. was Daddy's pride and Mama's joy, you know? Little shit. I couldn't do anything right, but him? Couldn't do anything wrong. It was always, Eli, you're older, you know better. A. J.'s just watching what you do. A. J. , don't listen to Eli. He's just going to get you in trouble. And then...then one day, when he was about nine and I was twelve, we brought home our report cards. And they finally said it. I heard it every time they talked, but there it was out loud. Eli, why can't you be more like your little brother? Like something had flipped a switch in my fucking brain, you know? I had worked my ass off for those fucking C's. He brings home a card full of A's. A for A. J. and C for Cain." He burst into bitter laughter, and nearly fell from the couch. 

Andy held the bottle out of reach. He had never seen Cain like this before, and he had seen Cain in some pretty strange moods. 

"A. J. heard it too. He came up to me later, said he wished they wouldn't do that, compare us like that. I didn't want to hear it. Slammed the door in his face. He got himself all upset. That was A. J. Always taking everything to heart. I turned on my metal and ignored him when he knocked. That night, I fought with my dad, shooting off my damn mouth, and he slapped me. Right in front of my brother. Didn't hurt. I mean, fuck, 'course it hurt," he slurred then, "I was freaking twelve years old. But I didn't feel it till later. All I felt then, humiliated. Fucking humiliated, in front of the little brother who still thought I was something. The only person ever thought I was something. And I hated him for seeing it. Not my dad, right? That would make some sense. I was too scared of my dad to hate him. I hated A. J. for seeing me scared of my dad."

Andy pulled out his phone and texted Sam that he had a gift in the van outside. Apparently this story was going to take a while, and he wanted to hear it through to the finish. 

"That deep south, you don't talk back to your daddy. I was lucky he didn't break my teeth. Didn't pull off his belt. Just slapped me, just the once. It was nearly worse like that, like I wasn't worth the effort. So when he turned around and walked away, all I could think was he was done with me. Not even worth beating me up. Right? A. J. followed me out when I left the house. Kept asking me if I was okay. And I was so pissed at him. So pissed. Just wanted to smoke a goddamn cigarette in peace. Kept my smokes in the tool shed. Followed me. So pissed. I slammed the door, locked him in."

Andy was silent. 

"A. J. never hurt anybody. But bees, they don't really discriminate good guys from bad guys so much. Just whoever they think is going to fuck up their nest. He wouldn't have. But can't tell bees nothing. Turns out the little shit was allergic. One would've done it, I guess. I wasn't gonna leave him there. Never would have left him. Came back, not twenty minutes. Kid didn't have a chance." 

The words fell out of his mouth. "Oh my god!"

"Left two years later. Wandering ever since. Daddy could never look at me in the face again. Mama couldn't stand to let me out of sight. It was a pisspoor combination where everyone was miserable. Better to get out and leave them alone."

"Jesus, Eli. I'm so sorry."

The man burst into laughter again, shaking the couch in his madness. "Only the good die young, Andrew. You gotta stop being so good, you know? Think that shit you smoke is enough to keep you out of heaven? Ain't bad enough."

Andy stared. "You always say that. I'm not bad enough. Is that what you meant all this time?"

"Look what's happening to Demon. Lost his edge. Reaper ain't scared of him no more. Sam, fuck!" Cain cackled shrilly. "Sam will live for-fucking-ever. Scary son of a bitch. Dean, he cares too much about his brother and his bitch. Lost his edge. Benny losing it too. Soon it'll just be me and darling Sammy, tearing up the night. I tried to save you, Andy. Tried. Just too damn good. Minute I met you, I said, there's my Abel. There's A. J. Right there. A for Andrew."

"Good doesn't get you killed, Eli. And bad sure doesn't keep you alive."

The laugh came with tears this time. "Yeah. I know. But it's the only thing ever made sense to me why it had to be him and not me. And some shit is eating The Demon from the inside. You can smell it, can't you? He ain't angry enough to burn it off anymore. He ain't wild enough anymore. You slow down enough, A. J., they catch up to you. Gotta run from The Reaper, man."

"Eli? I'm not A. J."

Cain looked at him finally, and frowned. "Don't matter, little brother. When it takes you, it'll feel the same to me."

Andy's lips parted, and he emitted a tiny sound, but had no voice. 

Benny crashed into the room then, and stared at them. "The hell are you two doing? You realize we gotta show in like forty? Eli, you getting into makeup or you going out like that? You look like shit!"

To Andy's surprise, the man leapt up from the couch and gave a wild laugh. "Fuck yeah. My set ready? Let's fucking do this!"

Andy stared after him. "Eli?"

The mass of uncontrollable hair flew out as his turned toward the roadie. "Ain't Eli, kid. It's Cain, little brother. Time to piss off The Reaper."

The wink hit Andy in the stomach. "Yeah," he breathed. "Good luck with that."


	18. Freak

Sam threw open the passenger door, and stared as Castiel crumpled in a heap out of the van with a shout. It took him two beats to realize the man had been cuffed by the left wrist to interior.

"Holy shit!" Sam cried, and dropped to help him before he dislocated a shoulder. "What the crap?"

"Your roadie's a psychopath!" Castiel wheezed out.

"Andy did this to...Ooh. I'm betting this is how he gets Cain back to the bus at night. Smart kid."

"Smart kid? Smart kid? Get me the fuck out of these things!"

Sam blew at his wayward hair in concentration. "Yeah. Sorry. Gimme a minute." He dropped Castiel's weight, heard the pain-filled groan, and ran around to the driver's side. He pulled the keys from the ignition, and was relieved to see a small narrow, silver one that was clearly for the cuffs. He rushed back around to where Castiel was swearing prolifically at the ground, bent over, with one arm twisted behind his back. As he worked, Sam couldn't help grinning. "Can't say I don't like you like this."

"Fucking psychotic metal head douche!" Castiel spat.

"Said I was sorry."

The cuff finally opened, and Castiel nearly ripped his wrist pulling himself free of it. He dropped to the ground and continued cursing, though the volume of it had lowered, and he was beginning to pause to breathe between threats now. He checked the rotation of his shoulder, and rubbed at his wrist.

Sam sat on his heels next to him. "Cas, I'm so sorry. I'm not even sure what happened last night."

Castiel raised his blue eyes just long enough to glare, then lowered them back to his wrist. He pulled his knees up in a movement Sam recognized as defensive. "You mean the insane moment where my hand burned into your chest, or the part where I told you the scariest fucking experience of my life and you mocked me for it? Because I just woke up covered in St. Augustine's cathedral and then had a roadie cuff me to a fucking van while claiming I was dead, which I still don't know was a threat or not. So it's all a bit of a blur."

"And you sent the guy to save Dean."

Castiel looked up again. "Dean? Why did Dean need saving?"

"You sent the guy to heal him. His tumor, his cancer, all of it. Gone. Even fixed the guy's throat."

Blue eyes narrowed in confusion. "Sam, you're making even less sense than Andy was. Are you saying Dean has cancer? Is that what's been going on?"

Sam stared at him for a moment. He reached out to touch Castiel's hand, to help him up off the ground, and suddenly saw a figure behind him. He startled badly.

It was the same man they had seen earlier, but now there were enormous golden wings flowing out from his back. There was a deep sadness in his smile. "No, Sam," he whispered. "He won't remember. He can't remember. It's important. It's...it's everything. Things that have happened can't be discussed. I've wiped Dean's memory, and that of the little roadie. I'll do the same with...with Castiel. Will I need to take your memory too? Or can I trust that you will do what I say? Castiel is special, and he needs to be protected."

Sam looked down to find Castiel still cursing aimlessly at his wrist, as if no one else were talking. He lifted his gaze to the creature in front of him.

"Sam, this man, he...he must live a full, long life, and he must vent his emotions safely. He has determined that your music and your relationship will allow him to do that. Do you want him with you?"

He nodded quickly. No matter what else he didn't understand, would never understand, about what this thing was saying, he knew the answer to that. "I want him. I haven't known the guy a week, and I already know I want him. It's...I've never been so sure of anything in my life. I want him. Forever."

The thing-the Angel so far as Sam could tell-smirked a bit. "Don't get ahead of yourself. Forever is a long time. Let's start with a human lifespan, and see where it goes from there. He's finicky. Past a hundred years or so, he tends to get bored. A bit of an attention deficit problem if you ask me."

Sam blinked at him. "Then I'll...take the hundred years."

"Good. He would want me to scrub your brain, but I'm going to just say we did and call it a day. Capiche?"

"Uh, yeah. Good. Thank you."

A pained look came over the Angel then. "Take care of him. Everything depends on it. Let him be whatever he's got to be, for as long as he can. And if you remind him of anything, I'll return to your brother what I took. Do we understand one another?"

"No! Yes, I mean, yes, I understand."

The Angel nodded. "Fine, then. Love him if you can. Leave him if you don't. Either way, he's going to get out of it what he needs. Just don't remind him of any of this, no matter what you do."

"Yeah. I promise. Why...why didn't you just clear out our memories before?"

He shrugged. "I had a cathedral to fix, and a lot of other brains to scrub. Cassie's been a busy boy." He winked. Then he placed his hand on Castiel's cheek, with a tenderness that surprised Sam, considering the brutality of the laying on of hands he had witnessed Dean suffer. Castiel's eyes closed, and peace came over his face. The Angel disappeared, as he had done before.

Sam took a shuddered sigh.

Blue eyes blinked several times. "Sam? You okay? I glazed off for a minute there. The show starts soon, doesn't it? Where am I supposed to stay during it?"

He stared at him. "How are you...feeling?"

The smile was filled with excitement and energy, with a touch of mischief. "Like I want to get into your clothes, but I'm guessing you don't have time for that now."

Sam's mind was racing, and his skin was itching for contact. "So you're okay?"

"Of course I'm okay." Castiel smirked at him. "I'm not one of your fragile little punks, Sam. I'm here for the music. I don't need you to baby me."

A slow grin came over his face. "It's like a fresh start."

"What is?"

"Everything." He grabbed at his shirt collar and glanced down. The handprint was there. He was almost relieved. He wasn't crazy. Dean was fine. Dean wasn't going to die, and Sam was getting a second chance at the best thing that ever happened to him.

Castiel looked stunned when Sam pressed soft lips onto his, a gentle touch, a sweetness, far out of character for him. He watched Sam with suspicion. "What's that about?"

"Cas, I gotta get on stage. But don't...don't go anywhere. Ever. Okay? I'm going to make this work. Can we...can you do that? Whatever you got back in California, I'll...I'll make you a better offer. I gotta go, but I don't want you to...Just don't go anywhere. Please." He turned toward the building, where some of the crew were milling about. "Andy!" he shouted.

"Sam, I don't understand-"

"Yeah, boss!" The roadie jogged toward him. "Hey, Cas. Soulless, want me to show him where he can watch the show?"

"Take care of him, Andy! I'm serious." He grinned manically at the poor, confused punk, and gestured to him with his huge hands and a gaze of pure lust. "I'm gonna want that the minute I get off stage. Don't let him get away."

"Ten four."

As Sam sprinted back, he heard the two behind him.

"Happened to your wrist, man?"

"I don't...remember."

"Sam a bit rough sometimes, huh? Heh. Come on. You can come with me..."

Sam felt energy course through him. It wasn't an anger, not like before. It was a flow of energy that would come out as a glorious blast of delicious, ecstatic wrath for the crowd. He laughed.

His hand came down on Dean's shoulder not ten minutes later, as they listened to the screams out in the crowd. His brother grinned wickedly. "Heya, Sammy!"

"How you feeling?"

The teeth were bright and bared. "Demonic. You?"

"Fucking unbelievable, man." He took a deep breath and screamed it out, and Dean laughed at him.

"We got work to do," he shouted.

Benny's fangs flashed white in the lights, and his eyes flashed dark as the crowd went into a frenzy at the sight of him. Then Cain's silhouette, cruel, beautiful madness in long hair, appeared at his drums.

Dean winked. "Good to be alive, ain't it?"

Sam felt the crowd's energy pulse through him, and he looked up to see Pamela and Andy directing behind the scenes. And there was Castiel.

His gaze stayed steady on Castiel as he and Dean slid onto the stage to the rhythm of Cain's genius and Benny's finesse, and he continued to stare into the blue gaze as he and Dean began to shriek into their headset microphones.

"Upstairs window, lovely sight.  
Downstairs brain doing the thinking tonight  
Whatcha watching, thinking she can’t see?  
While you’re watching her, she’s watching me.  
Your chances starting to look awful bleak  
Boy, you ain’t the right kind of freak."

He could see, even amidst the lights, that Castiel was mouthing the words with him, and he imagined licking those gorgeous lips, let the lust carry him through the song. He wanted to make sure Castiel never thought of that sick Meg chick again when he heard this song. There wasn't going to be a song that didn't make Castiel think of Sam inside him, Sam would be sure of that.

"Some kind of fucking freak  
Fucking freak, too damn meek  
Don’t want some freaking weak-ass geek  
She’s looking for some kind of freak!"

Dean was better tonight than he had been in a year. Clean of any excess chemicals, clean of any disease, he was slamming the words and chords the way Sam knew he would when he had written this so long ago.

"You just want to take yourself a peek  
Rubbing off to that fine physique  
Don’t know the kind of hell she can wreak  
You can’t handle this kind of freak!"

Benny's eyes were slipping closed. He poured his whole heart over every movement of his fingers, and Sam knew how good it felt. Fang and Cain were only really themselves when they were pounding out music. Everything else, it was all just trying to survive till the next time they could escape into the music. The two of them did their best every other minute, but they were their best when they played. And in that time, Sam loved them like brothers. No matter how much they pissed him off at any other time, when they played, really played, Sam felt like they were all brothers.

"Upstairs window, lovely sight.  
She’s calling out for her meal tonight  
While you watching, thinking she can’t see?  
I’ll be making that delivery!  
Think you won, you’re on a losing streak  
Boy, you ain’t the right kind of freak!"

Dean was cackling into his microphone, and Benny grinned at him. They knew the story behind the song. Pamela had ordered pizza, and Dean had gone to the hotel lobby to get it for her. He had gone out to the Impala to grab his forgotten wallet, and had found a man staring up at the window where Pamela was dressing. Things had not ended well for that man, but that was the first time Dean had scored with Pamela. When he had arrived up at the room, heaving anger, with a bloody fist and a pizza, Pamela had told him she had known the guy was watching, but she knew Dean would take care of it.

"Guy's some kind of freak," Dean had grumbled.

She had smiled. "But not the right kind," she had responded, and at that moment, Sam's big brother fell completely in love, and never saw his heart again.

The laughter exploded from both brothers, and it was all they could do to chant the lyrics out. Benny was shaking his head at them. The crowd didn't seem to mind.

Behind them all, Castiel looked like he was promising with his eyes that he was exactly the kind of freak Sam needed.

Maybe that was what love was for a Winchester. Just finding a compatible freak. He and Dean were one another's rocks. What they needed were freaks who could keep up, who could keep them off balance, remind them they were human one minute, and help them forget it again the next.

Sam was surrounded by family. It was the most fucked up, most psychotically, irrationally, erotically codependent family imaginable, but it was exactly what they all needed. A miracle, from Heaven, from Hell, from who knew where, had given him and his brother a second chance. He didn't care why or how the miracle had come. He wasn't about to waste it. Survival wasn't enough anymore. Surviving was an insult to the universe, to the gift they'd been given. Sam was going to live. Maybe it had been years since he hadn't wanted to end everything, but he felt so alive now, and he was never going to give that up again. He was alive, he was in love, and for the first time in far too long, Sam was happy. Ending everything hadn't worked. This was his chance to begin his life again, and he planned to kick it in the ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May add some lyrics later, but this ends the trip down the rabbit hole. Thanks for reading! Not sure why you did. But thanks!
> 
> Update: The completely unrelated Sastiel story Angry Skies includes Easter egg cameos of the band, including new lyrics. Enjoy!
> 
> ~Posing

**Author's Note:**

> See? I warned you that you wouldn't like it. And what did you do? You went and read it anyway. Why do I bother warning you people?
> 
> Comment anyway. Tell me how much you didn't like it.
> 
> ~Posing


End file.
